UNIVERSITY  OF 
CAUFOftNlA 

SAN  DIEGO 


0  Ac 


FOR   EVER  AND   A   DAY." 


In  Bohemia 

with 

Du  Maurier 

'The  First  of  a  Series  of  Reminiscences 


Bv 

FELIX  MOSCHELES 


With  63   Original  'Drawing* 


Bv 

G.  Du  MAURIER 


Illustrating  the  tAr list's  Life 
in  the  Fifties 


NEW-YORK 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
1897 


'The  few  introductory  words  to  this  volume  were  written, 
and  the  last  -proofs  -posted,  shortly  before  the  fatal  news 
overtook  me  in  lovely  Venice.  My  world,  resplendent 
with  sunshine,  was  suddenly  lost  in  darkness.  The 
most  lovable  of  men,  whose  -presence  alone  sufficed  to 
make  life  worth  living  to  all  those  near  and  dear  to 
him,  was  gone  from  amongst  us.  His  hand  was  no 
longer  to  hold  those  -pens — the  finely-pointed  one  that 
drew,  the  freely-flowing  one  that  wrote.  His  well- 
earned  rest  was  not  to  be  enjoyed  on  earth. 

Now  that  all  is  changed,  the  joyous  note  of  these  pages 
jars  upon  me.  How  differently  would  I  attune  the  story 
of  our  student  days,  were  I  to  write  it  to-day  in  loving 
memory  of  my  friend ! 

But  as  it  stands,  so  it  must  go  forth.  <The  book, 
cordially  endorsed  by  him,  is  printed  and  all  but  issued ; 
he  would  not  let  me  recall  it,  I  know.  He  himself,  in 
his  kindly,  simple  way,  had  enjoyed  my  resuscitation 
of  our  early  recollections,  and  had  here  and  there  lent  a 
helpful  hand  even  to  the  correcting  of  the  proofs. 

7 


T0  write  of  him  and  of  his  qualities  of  heart  and 
mind  as  I  would  now  venture  to  record  them,  I  must 
wait  till  the  heavier  clouds  have  cleared  away  and  left 
the  -picture,  I  would  draw  once  more  to  stand  out  brightly 
in  the  background  of  "Time. 

FELIX   MOSCHELES. 
October,  1896. 


PREFACE. 

YOU'LL  see  that  I've  used  up  all  your 
Mesmerism  and  a  trifle  more  in  my 
new  book,"  said  du  Maurier  to  me,  some  time 
before  he  published  his  "  Trilby "  ;  and  that 
remark  started  us  talking  of  the  good  old  times 
in  Antwerp,  and  overhauling  the  numerous  draw- 
ings and  sketches  in  which  he  so  vividly  depicted 
the  incidents  of  our  Bohemian  days.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  some  of  those  drawings  should  be 
published,  if  only  to  show  how  my  now  so 
popular  friend  commenced  his  artistic  career. 
In  order  that  they  should  not  go  forth  without 
explanation,  I  wrote  the  following  pages. 

The  Bohemia  I  have  sought  to  coerce  into 
book  shape,  is  not  the  wild  country,  peopled  by 
the  delightfully  unconventional  savages,  so  often 
described,  but  a  little  cultivated  corner  of  the 
land,  as  I  found  it  in  Antwerp,  a  mere  back- 
ground to  the  incidents  I  had  to  relate.  Such 

9  B 


Preface. 

as  it  is,  it  may  perhaps  serve  here  and  there  to 
point  to  the  original  soil  from  which  were  even- 
tually to  spring  some  of  the  figures  so  familiar 
to  us  to-day. 

To  me  it  was  a  source  of  enjoyment  to  evoke 
these  memories,  and  if  I  publish  them,  it  is 
because  I  strongly  feel  that  pleasures  shared 
are  pleasures  doubled.  Sociably  inclined  as  I 
always  was,  I  am  truly  glad  to  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  giving  a  hearty  welcome  to  those  who 
may  care  to  join  my  friend  and  myself  in  our 
ramblings  and  our  "tumblings." 


10 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

PART    I.  .....  .17 

PART  II.  .  .  69 


i  i 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAGE 

"  FOR  EVER  AND  A  DAY  "        .  .        Frontispiece 

THE   ATELIER   GLEYRE    .  .  .  .  .         l8 

MY   BLOUSE  .  .  .  .  .  .20 

(From  an  oil-sketch  by  Matthew  Marts.) 

PEGGY  AND  DU  MAURIER  AT  THE  RAILWAY  STATION 

IN  MALINES  .  .  .  .  -27 

FROM  DU  MAURIER'S  PAINTING  .  .  .30 

MOSCHELES  ET  MOI  SI  NOUS  AVIONS  £TE  DU  BEAU  SEXE      32 
SI  NOUS  AVIONS  ETE  BEAUX     .  .  .  -32 

MOSCHELES  ET  MOI  SI  NOUS  N'AVIONS  PAS  ETE  ARTISTES      33 
SI  NOUS  AVIONS  ETE  CHEVAUX  .  .  -33 

F.    s'lL   ETAIT   CHEVAL     .  .  .  .  -33 

SI    NOUS  AVIONS   ETE    MILITAIRES  .  .  -34 

"  CE   SACRE   VESICATOIRE  "  .  .  -35 

ISABEL   DU    MAURIER        .  .  .  .  -35 

MOSCHELES,    OR    MEPHISTOPHELES  ? — WHICH     .  .         40 

"  INSPIRATION    PAPILLOTIQUE  "  ...         42 

DU    MAURIER   IMPROVISING  .  .  .  -43 

13 


List  of  Illustrations. 


PAGE 

HOW  RAG  TRIES  TO  DESILLUSIONER  CARRY  ON  BOBTAIL, 

AND  BOBTAIL  TRIES  TO  DITTO  DITTO  ON  RAG         .      44 

THE  INGENIOUS  USE  WHICH  RAG  MAKES  OF  BOBTAIL'S 

PLIABLE  HAT          .  .  .  .  .46 

"  BESHREW  THEE,  NOBLE  SIR  RAGGE  !   LET  US  TO  THE 

FAIR  TOBACCONISTE "  .  .  -49 

"  SALUT  A  LA  GENTE  ET  ACCORTE  PUCELLE "  .  50 

A  MESMERIC  SEANCE  IN  MRS.  L.'s  BACK  PARLOUR  .  57 

THE  MIDNIGHT  PRESENCE  OF  THE  UNCANNY   .  .  60 

FELIX  LOOKS  VERY  SEEDY  AFTER  HIS  BIRTHDAY  .  64 

"  RACHEL"  AND  FRIENDS  CELEBRATE  BOBTAIL'S  BIRTH- 
DAY. .  .  .  .  .  -65 

RAG  .......         72 

BOBTAIL.  .  .  .  .  .  72 

"WHAT  THE  DEUCE  AM  i  TO  DO  WITH  THIS  CONFOUNDED 

ROPE  ?      HANG   MYSELF,    I   WONDER."  .  .         76 

COFFEE   AND   BRASSIN    IN    BOBTAIL'S    ROOMS       .  .         80 

CLARA   MOSCHELES  .  .  .  .  -83 

(<  HERR    RAG    SCHICKT   ZU    FRAULEIN    MOSCHELES   SEIN 

EMPFEHLUNG   UND   IHREN    BRUDER."  .  .         87 

CHER    LIX  .  .  .  .  .  .88 

"AN    INDISCREET   FELLOW   LOOKING   OVER   MY "     .         89 

DU    MAURIER  AT   WORK  AGAIN    .  .  .  .90 

"  CLAUDIUS  FELIX  ET  PUBLIUS  BUSSO,  CUM  CENTURIONE 

GUIDORUM,  AUDIENTES  JUVENES  CONSERVATORIONI  "        91 
14 


List  of  Illustrations. 


PAGE 

DOUBLE-BEDDED  ROOM  IN  BRUSSELS    .  .  -93 

THE  HEIGHT  OF  ENJOYMENT     .  .  .  -95 

YE  CELEBRATED  RAG  TREATETH  HIMSELF  TO  A  PRIVATE 
PERFORMANCE  OF  YE  PADRE  FURIOSO  E  FIGLIA 
INFELICE  .  .  .  .  .  -97 

AT  THE  HOFRATH'S  DOOR          .  .  .  -99 

"  I  SAY,  GOVERNOR,  MIND  YOU  DON'T  GASH  HIS  THROAT 

AS  YOU  DID  THAT  POOR  OLD  SPANIARD'S  "  .  .     IOO 

MR  KENNEDY,  WHO  IS  QUITE  BLIND,  DISCREETLY  IN- 
FORMS THE  PROFESSOR  THAT  CAPTAIN  MARIUS 
BLUEBLAST  "  IS  NA  BUT  A  SINFU'  BLACKGUARD"  IOI 

MEETING  IN  DUSSELDORF          ....     103 
SCENE  FROM  MACPHERSON's  OSSIAN      .  .  .     106 

PORTRAIT  OF  PICCIOLA  .  .  .  .  .     115 

"ON  THEIR  HONEYMOON"        .  .  .  .116 

Also  Illustration  on  pages  37,  88,  98,  102,  108,  109,  no, 
112,  114,  119,  123,  135,  144,  145. 


I. 

"TUMBLINGS" 

WITH  DU  MAURIER   AND  FRIENDS. 

I  WELL  remember"  my  first  meeting  with 
du  Maurier  in  the  class-rooms  of  the  famous 
Antwerp  Academy. 

I  was  painting  and  blagueing,  as  one  paints 
and  blagues  in  the  storm  and  stress  period  of 
one's  artistic  development. 

It  had  been  my  good  fortune  to  commence  my 
studies  in  Paris ;  it  was  there,  in  the  atelier 
Gleyre,  I  had  cultivated,  I  think  I  may  say,  very 
successfully,  the  essentially  French  art  of  chaffing, 
known  by  the  name  of  "  La  blague  parisienne,"  and 
I  now  was  able  to  give  my  less  lively  Flemish 
friends  and  fellow-students  the  full  benefit  of  my 
experience.  Many  pleasant  recollections  bound 
me  to  Paris  ;  so,  when  I  heard  one  day  that  a 
"  Nouveau "  had  arrived,  straight  from  my  old 

17  c 


In  Bohemia 

atelier  Gleyre,    I   was    not   a   little    impatient    to 
make  his  acquaintance. 

The  new-comer  was  du  Maurier.  I  sought 
him  out,  and,  taking  it  for  granted  that  he  was 
a  Frenchman,  I  addressed  him  in  French  ;  we 
were  soon  engaged  in  lively  conversation,  asking 


THE   ATELIER   GLEYRE. 


and  answering  questions  about  the  comrades  in 
Paris,  and  sorting  the  threads  that  associated  us 
both  with  the  same  place.  "  Did  you  know  '  un 
nomme  Pointer  '  ?  "  he  asked,  exquisitely  Frenchy- 
fying  the  name  for  my  benefit.  I  mentally  trans- 

18 


with  du  Maurier. 

lated  this  into  equally  exquisite  English,  my 
version  naturally  being :  "A  man  called  Poynter." 

Later  on  an  American  came  up,  with  whom  I 
exchanged  a  few  words  in  his  and  my  native 
tongue.  "  What  the  D.  are  you — English  ?  " 
broke  in  du  Maurier.  "And  what  the  D.  are 
you  ?  "  I  rejoined.  I  forget  whether  D.  stood 
for  Dickens  or  for  the  other  one  ;  probably  it 
was  the  latter.  At  any  rate,  whether  more  or 
less  emphatic  in  our  utterances,  we  then  and 
there  made  friends  on  a  sound  international  basis. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  at  this  our  first  meeting 
du  Maurier  took  me  in  at  a  glance — the  eager, 
hungry  glance  of  the  caricaturist.  He  seemed 
struck  with  my  appearance,  as  well  he  might  be. 
I  wore  a  workman's  blouse  that  had  gradually 
taken  its  colour  from  its  surroundings.  To 
protect  myself  from  the  indiscretions  of  my 
comrades  I  had  painted  various  warnings  on 
my  back,  as,  for  instance,  "Bill  stickers  beware," 
"  It  is  forbidden  to  shoot  rubbish  here,"  and  the 
like.  My  very  black  hair,  ever  inclined  to  run 
riot,  was  encircled  by  a  craftily  conceived  band 
of  crochet-work,  such  as  only  a  fond  mother's 
hand  could  devise,  and  I  was  doubtless  colouring 
some  meerschaum  of  eccentric  design.  My 

19 


In  Bohemia 

fellow-student,  the  now  famous  Matthew  Maris, 
immortalised    that     blouse    and    that     piece    of 


MY   BLOUSE. 

(From  an  oil-sketch  by  Matthew  Maris.) 

crochet-work    in    the    admirable    oil-sketch    here 

reproduced. 

20 


with  du  Maurier. 

It  has  always  been  a  source  of  legitimate  pride 
to  me  to  think  that  I  should  have  been  the  tool 
selected  by  Providence  to  sharpen  du  Maurier's 
pencil  ;  there  must  have  been  something  in  my 
"Verfluchte  Physiognomic,"  as  a  very  handsome 
young  German,  whom  I  used  to  chaff  unmerci- 
fully, called  it,  to  reveal  to  du  Maurier  hidden 
possibilities  and  to  awaken  in  him  those  dormant 
capacities  which  had  betrayed  themselves  in  the 
eager  glance  above  named. 

This  was,  I  believe,  in  1857  ;  not  feeling  over 
sure  as  regards  that  date,  I  refer  to  a  bundle  of 
du  Maurier's  letters  before  me,  but  they  offer  me 
no  assistance  ;  there  is  but  one  dated,  and  that 
one  merely  headed :  "  Dusseldorf,  igth  Cent." 
Well,  in  1857,  then,  let  us  take  it,  the  Antwerp 
Academy  was  under  the  direction  of  De  Keyser, 
that  most  urbane  of  men  and  painters.  Van 
Lerius,  well  known  to  many  American  and 
English  lovers  of  art,  her  Majesty  included,  was 
professor  of  the  Painting  Class,  and  amongst  the 
students  there  were  many  who  rapidly  made 
themselves  a  name,  as  Tadema,  M.  Maris, 
Neuhuys,  Heyermans,  and  the  armless  artist, 
whose  foot-painted  copies  after  the  Masters  at 
the  Antwerp  Gallery  are  well  known  to  every 

21 


In  Bohemia 

tourist.  The  teaching  was  of  a  sound,  practical 
nature,  strongly  imbued  with  the  tendencies  of 
the  colourist  school.  Antwerp  ever  sought  to 
uphold  the  traditions  of  a  great  Past ;  in  the 
atelier  Gleyre  you  might  have  studied  form  and 
learnt  to  fill  it  with  colour,  but  here  you  would  be 
taught  to  manipulate  colour,  and  to  limit  it  by 
form.  A  peculiar  kind  of  artistic  kicks  and  cuffs 
were  administered  to  the  student  by  Van  Lerius 
as  he  went  his  rounds.  "That  is  a  charming  bit 
of  colour  you  have  painted  in  that  forehead,"  he 
said  to  me  on  one  occasion — "  so  delicate  and 
refined.  Do  it  again,"  he  added,  as  he  took  up 
my  palette  knife  and  scraped  off  the  "  delicate 
bit."  "  Ah,  you  see,  savez  vous,  you  can't  do  it 
again  ;  you  got  it  by  fluke,  some  stray  tints  off 
your  palette,  savez  vous"  and,  taking  the  biggest 
brush  I  had,  he  swept  over  that  palette  and 
produced  enough  of  the  desired  tints  to  have 
covered  a  dozen  foreheads. 

The  comrade  without  arms  was  a  most  as- 
siduous worker ;  it  was  amusing  to  watch  his 
mittened  feet  step  out  of  their  shoes  and  at  the 
shortest  notice  proceed  to  do  duty  as  hands  ;  his 
nimble  toes  would  screw  and  unscrew  the  tops  of 
the  colour  tubes  or  handle  the  brush  as  steadily 


with  du  Maurier. 

as  the  best  and  deftest  of  fingers  could  have 
done.  Very  much  unlike  any  of  us,  he  was  most 
punctilious  in  the  care  he  bestowed  on  his  paint 
box,  as  also  on  his  personal  appearance.  Maris, 
Neuhuys,  Heyermans,  and  one  or  two  others 
equally  gifted,  but  whose  thread  of  life  was 
soon  to  be  cut  short,  were  painting  splendid 
studies,  some  of  which  I  was  fortunate  enough 
to  rescue  from  destruction  and  have  happily 
preserved. 

Quite  worthy  to  be  placed  next  to  these  are 
Van-der-something's  studies.  That  (or  something 
like  that)  was  the  name  of  a  wiry,  active  little 
man  who  in  those  days  painted  in  a  garret ;  there 
everything  was  disarranged  chaotically,  mostly 
on  the  floor,  for  there  was  no  furniture  that  I  can 
recollect  beyond  a  stool,  an  easel,  and  a  fine  old 
looking-glass.  He  had  a  house,  though,  and  a 
wife,  in  marked  contrast  with  his  appearance  and 
the  garret.  The  house  was  not  badly  appointed, 
and  she  was  lavishly  endowed  with  an  exuberance 
of  charms  and  graces  characteristic  of  a  Rubens 
model. 

A  fellow-student  of  mine  was  their  lodger,  a 
handsome  young  German,  brimful  of  talent,  but 
sadly  deficient  in  health.  He  had  always  held 

23 


In  Bohemia 

most  rigid  principles  on  questions  of  morality, 
but  unfortunately  they  failed  one  day  in  their 
application,  owing  to  the  less  settled  views  enter- 
tained by  Madame  Van-der-something  on  such 
subjects.  She  certainly  gave  him  much  affection 
on  the  one  hand,  but  on  the  other  she  so  auda- 
ciously appropriated  those  of  his  goods  and 
chattels  that  could  be  turned  into  money,  that  the 
police  had  to  intervene,  and  she  eventually  found 
herself  before  a  judge  and  jury.  There,  how- 
ever, she  managed  so  well  to  cast  all  responsi- 
bility on  her  husband,  who,  to  this  day,  I  believe 
was  quite  innocent,  that — "  cherchez  la  femme  "• 
she  got  off,  and  he  was  sentenced  to  a  term  of 
imprisonment. 

Now  if  Van  Ostade  or  Teniers  had  risen  to 
prosecute  him  for  forging  their  signatures,  and  he 
had  been  found  guilty  and  condemned  to  severe 
punishment,  it  would  have  served  him  right.  He 
was  a  perfect  gem  of  a  forger.  He  picked  up  a 
stock  of  those  dirty  old  pictures  painted  on  worm- 
eaten  panels  that  used  to  abound  in  the  sale- 
rooms of  Antwerp.  On  these  he  would  paint 
what  might  be  called  replicas  with  variations, 
cribbing  left  and  right  from  old  mildewed  prints 
that  were  scattered  all  about  the  floor.  He  would 

24 


with  du  Maurier. 

scrape  and  scumble,  brighten  and  deaden  with 
oils  and  varnishes  ;  he  would  dodge  and  manipu- 
late till  his  picture,  after  a  given  time  spent  in 
a  damp  cellar,  would  emerge  as  a  genuine  old 
master.  I  once  asked  a  dealer  whom  I  knew  to 
be  a  regular  customer  of  his,  at  what  price  he 
sold  one  of  those  productions.  "  I  really  can't 
say,"  he  answered  ;  "I  only  do  wholesale  busi- 
ness. I  buy  for  exportation  to  England  and 
America."  If  any  of  my  friends  here  or  over 
there  possess  some  work  of  Van-der-something's, 
I  sincerely  congratulate  them,  for  the  little  man 
was  a  genius  in  his  way. 

Of  my  friend  the  German  I  have  only  to  say 
that,  poor  fellow,  he  spent  but  a  short  life  of 
pleasure  and  of  pain.  What  became  of  his  Circe 
I  never  sought  to  know.  It  was  a  clear  case  of 
"  Ne  cherchez  pas  la  femme  !  " 

The  first  friend  I  made  on  my  arrival  in 
Antwerp  was  Jean  Heyermans  (detto  il  Pegghi), 
and  a  very  useful  one  he  proved  himself,  for  he 
at  once  took  me  in  hand,  helped  me  to  find  home 
and  hearth,  and  generally  gave  me  the  correct 
tip,  so  valuable  to  the  stranger.  He  lost  no  time 
in  teaching  me  some  of  those  full-flavoured 
Flemish  idioms  which  from  the  first  enabled  me 

25  D 


In  Bohemia 

to    emphasise    my    meaning  when    I    wished    to 
express   it  in  unmistakable  language. 

He  himself  was  a  remarkable  linguist,  speaking 
English,  French,  and  German  fluently,  in  addi- 
tion to  his  native  language,  Dutch  ;  so  he  soon 
chummed  with  du  Maurier  and  me  in  several 
languages,  and  became  one  of  our  set.  He  was 
always  ready  to  follow  us  in  our  digressions  from 
the  conventional  course,  and  we  felt  that  many  of 
our  best  international  jokes  would  have  been  lost 
had  it  not  been  for  his  comprehension  and  appre- 
ciation. His  father,  too,  was  a  kind  friend  to  us, 
inviting  us  to  his  house  to  hear  Music  and  talk 
Art,  to  ply  knives  and  forks,  and  to  empty 
glasses  of  various  dimensions.  That  gentle- 
man's corpulence  had  reached  a  degree  which 
clearly  showed  that  he  must  have  "lost  sight  of 
his  knees  "  some  years  back,  but  he  was  none 
the  less  strong  and  active.  There  were  two 
daughters,  one  pathetically  blind,  the  other  sym- 
pathetically musical. 

How  our  friend  came  by  the  name  of  Peggy 
none  of  us  know,  but  he  figures  as  such  in  many 
of  du  Maurier's  drawings. 

"If  Peggy,"  he  says,  in  a  letter  from  Malines, 
"  doesn't  come  on  Sunday,  may  the  vengeance  of 

26 


with  die  Maurier. 

the  gods  overtake  him  !  Tell  him  so.  I'll  meet 
him  at  the  train."  And  then  he  sketches  the 
meeting  and  greeting  of  the  two,  and  the  railway 
guard  starting  his  train  with  the  old-fashioned 
horn-signal  on  the  G.E.C.  then  in  use. 

My  friend  Jean  soon  started  on  his  career  as  a 
regular  exhibitor  in  Belgium  and  Holland,  besides 
which  he  developed  a  remarkable  taste  and  talent 
for  teaching. 


PEGGY  AND   DU   MAURIER  AT  THE   RAILWAY  STATION   IN   MALINES. 

''What  would  you  advise  about  Pen's  studies?" 
said  Robert  Browning  one  afternoon  as  we  sat  in 
my  little  studio,  talking  about  his  son's  talents 
and  prospects.  (This  was  a  few  years  after  my 
final  return  to  England.)  "Send  him  to  Antwerp," 
I  said,  "  to  Heyermans  ;  he  is  the  best  man  I 
know  of  to  start  him." 

27 


•In  Bohemia 

•i 

Pen  went,  and  soon  made  surprising  progress, 
painting  a  picture  after  little  more  than  a  twelve- 
month that  at  once  found  an  eager  purchaser. 
The  poet  took  great  pride  in  his  son's  success, 
and  lost  no  opportunity  of  speaking  in  the  most 
grateful  and  appreciative  terms  of  the  teacher. 
Millais  and  Tadema  endorsed  his  praise,  and 
Heyermans'  reputation  was  established.  A  few 
years  ago  he  migrated  to  London,  where  he  con- 
tinues his  work,  pluckily  upholding  the  traditions 
of  the  Past,  whilst  readily  encouraging  the  whole- 
some aspirations  of  a  rising  generation. 

Another  man  destined  to  find  a  permanent 
home  in  England  was  Alma  Tadema.  He  was 
not  much  in  the  Painting  Class  in  my  time,  but 
had  previously  been  hard  at  work  there.  I 
mostly  saw  him  in  the  room  adjoining  it,  and  he 
always  seemed  to  me  exclusively  interested  in  the 
study  of  costume  and  history.  The  incident  that 
led  to  his  leaving  the  academy  rather  abruptly  is 
characteristic.  An  uncle  of  his  having  given  him 
a  commission  for  a  picture,  Tadema  applied  to 
de  Keyser  for  authorisation  to  make  the  neces- 
sary break  in  his  studies.  The  Director  accorded 
him  three  weeks,  but,  as  Tadema  put  it  when 
lately  recalling  the  circumstance,  "  I  couldn't 


with  du  Maurier. 

paint  a  picture  in  three  weeks  then,  and  I  cannot 
now." 

I  little  thought  that  from  his  studies  of  costume 
and  history,  the  comrade  of  my  Antwerp  days 
would  evolve  a  long  and  uninterrupted  series  of 
masterpieces,  resuscitating  the  Past  and  present- 
ing it  with  the  erudition  of  the  Student  and  the 
genius  of  the  Artist.  Nor  did  anything  fore- 
shadow that  my  genial  Dutch  friend,  to  whom 
the  English  language  was  a  dead  letter,  was 
destined  in  a  not  too  distant  Future  to  become  a 
shining  light  of  England's  Royal  Academy. 

Du  Maurier  was  soon  installed  in  the  Painting 
Class,  and  made  a  vigorous  start.  Of  the  things 
he  painted,  I  particularly  recollect  a  life-size, 
three-quarter  group  of  an  old  woman  and  a 
boy — a  pen-and-ink  drawing  of  which  is  in  my 
father's  album — that  showed  talent  enough  and 
to  spare,  but  his  artistic  aspirations  were  soon 
to  meet  with  a  serious  check.  His  eyesight 
suddenly  gave  him  trouble,  and  before  long 
put  a  stop  to  his  studies  at  atelier  or  academy. 
He  was  not  to  become  a  painter,  as  he  had 
fondly  hoped,  but  as  we  now  know,  he  was  to 
work  out  his  destiny  in  another  direction.  With 
the  simplest  of  means  he  was  to  delineate 

29 


From  J«  Mauriefs  painting. 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Maurier. 

character,  and  everyday  drops  of  ink,  when 
filtered  through  his  pen,  were  to  emerge  in 
quaint  or  graceful  shapes,  wit,  satire,  and  senti- 
ment taking  their  turns  to  prompt  and  guide  that 
pen. 

In  those  days  we  called  all  that  caricaturing, 
and  caricature  he  certainly  did  ;  mainly  me  and 
himself.  From  the  first  he  imagined  he  saw  a 
marked  contrast  between  us.  His  nose  was 
supposed  to  be  turned  up,  and  mine  down, 
whereas  really  neither  his  nor  mine  much 
deviated  from  the  ordinary  run  of  noses ;  my 
lower  lip  certainly  does  project,  but  his  does  not 
particularly  recede,  and  so  on.  But  the  imaginary 
contrast  inspired  him  in  the  earliest  days  of 
our  acquaintance,  and  started  him  on  the  war- 
path of  pen-and-inking.  He  drew  us  in  all 
conceivable  and  in  some  inconceivable  situations. 
"  Moscheles  and  I,"  he  says  on  one  page,  "had 
we  not  been  artists,  or  had  we  been  artistically 
beautiful  ;  then  again,  if  we  were  of  the  fair 
sex,  or  soldiers,  or,  by  way  of  showing  our 
versatility,  if  we  were  horses."  In  that  page  he 
seems  to  have  focussed  the  essence  of  our 
characteristics,  whilst  appearing  only  to  delineate 
our  human  and  equine  possibilities.  Poor  F., 

31 


In  Bo  hernia 


one    of    our    German    friends,     fares     badly,     a 
donkey's  head  portraying  him  "s'il  etait  cheval." 


MOSCHELES   ET   MOI    SI   NOUS   AVIOXS   ETE   UU    BEAU   SEXE. 


SI   NOUS  AVIOXS   ETE   BEAUX. 


In   consequence   of   the  growing  trouble   with 
his  eyes,  du  Maurier  left  Antwerp   for  Malines, 

32 


with  du  Maurier. 


to  place  himself  under  the  care  of  an  eminent 
oculist  who    resided    within    easy  reach    of  that 


MOSCHELES   ET   MOI   SI   NOUS  N'AVIONS   PAS   ETE   ARTISTES. 


v* 


SI   NOUS   AVIONS   ETE   CHEVAUX. 


*A  1 


F.  S'lL  ETAIT  CHEVAL. 


city.     That  blessed  blister — "ce  sacr^  vdsicatoire," 
as  he  calls  it,   is  one  of  the  doctor's    remedies. 

33  E 


The  sketch  shows  how  it  is  being  applied  by  a 
devoted  Sister  of  Mercy. 

In    those   days    railway  travelling  was  not  as 
rapid    as    it    is    now,    but    one    could   get    from 


!>"K 


ft  M 

rl 

H 

"^3 

1  ^.p 

t'/         \                                                                 A 

Jr 

r 

s#/     '                               ^ 

^  ^7^- 

£!,y--/^ 

->/^ 

r-    /  ' 

SI   NOUS  AVIOXS   ETE   MILITAIKES. 


Antwerp  to  Malines  in  about  an  hour,  a  circum- 
stance which  I  frequently  turned  to  account. 
Du  Maurier's  mother  had  come  to  live  with  him, 
his  sister  joining  them  for  a  short  time,  and  the 
home  in  quiet  old  Malines  soon  became  a  sort 

34 


with  du  Maurier. 


of  haven  of  rest.  I  spent  many  a  happy  day 
and  night  there,  on  which  occasions  I  am  bound 
to  say  that  the  piano,  requisitioned  by  me  for 


CE   SACRE  VESICATOIRE. 


some  special  purposes  of 
musical  caricature,  detracted 
somewhat  from  the  restful- 
ness  of  the  haven.  How- 
ever that  may  have  been, 
such  intrusion  was  never 
resented ;  my  Swedish  prima 
donna,  or  my  qualifications 
as  a  basso  profondo,  or  a  brass-bandsman,  were 
always  treated  with  the  greatest  indulgence  by 
the  ladies,  and  my  high  soprano  flourished  and 

35 


ISABEL   DU   MAURIER. 


In  Bohemia 

positively  reached  unknown  altitudes  under  the 
beneficent  sunshine  of  their  applause.  (For 
all  that  I  never  attempted  Chopin's  "Im- 
promptu.") 

Then  du  Maurier  would  sing  the  French 
"romance"  or  the  English  song,  or  he  would 
"dire  la  chansonnette,"  and  what  with  his 
sympathetic  tenor  and  his  intuitive  knowledge 
of  music,  he  seemed  to  be  able  to  express  more 
than  many  who  had  had  the  advantage  of  a 
musical  training.  A  few  old  letters  of  his  remind 
me  that  we  were  audacious  enough  to  write 
verses  and  music,  he  doing  the  former,  I  the 
latter. 

"  Here's  something  I  particularly  want  you  to 
do,"  he  writes.  "Take  strong  coffee,  inspire 
yourself,  think  of  your  '  Ideal,'  and  compose 
some  very  pretty  music  to  the  enclosed  words, 
with  which  Rag's  ideal  flame  has  inspired  Rag 
— surtout,  let  it  be  as  good  as  possible,  with 
accompaniment  a  ravenant.  An  alteration  in 
the  music  of  each  stanza  would  render  the 
gradation  of  energy  expressed  in  the  words, 
'  Je  compte  sur  toi.' '  (How  du  Maurier 
came  by  the  name  of  "  Rag "  I  must  tell 
later  on.) 

36 


with  du  Maurier, 

Then  follow  the  words  : — 

CHANSON. 

D'apres  tin  barde  Britannique.1 
Les  sources  vont  a  la  riviere 

Et  la  riviere  a  1'ocean  ; 
Les  monts  embrassent  la  lumiere, 

Le  vent  du  ciel  se  mele  au  vent ; 
Centre  le  flot,  le  flot  se  presse ; 

Rien  ne  vit  seul — tout  semble,  ici, 
Se  fondre  en  la  commune  ivresse.  .  .  . 

Et  pourquoi  pas  nous  deux  aussi  ? 
Vois  le  soleil  etreint  la  terre, 

Qui  rougit  d'aise  a  son  coucher — 
La  lune  etreint  les  riots,  qu'eclaire 

Son  rayon  doux  comme  un  baiser  ; 
Les  moindres  fleurs  ont  des  tendresses 

Pour  leurs  pareilles  d'ici-bas 
Que  valent  toutes  ces  caresses 

Si  tu  ne  me  caresses  pas  ?  2 

Two  slight  sketches  of  "  L'auteur  de  profil ' 
and  "  Le  compositeur  de  face  "  head  the  page. 


Soon  afterwards  he  sends  me  another  poetical 
effusion  and  writes  : 

"  DEAR    BOBTAIL, — I    send  you   the   Serenade 

1  See  Shelley's  "  Love's  Philosophy." 

2  Pour    bien    apprecier    la    valeur   artistique   de   cette 
romance,  il   faut  1'entendre   chanter  par  Rag   en   tenant 
les  yeux  fixes  sur  le  profil  de  Bobtail. 

37 


In  Bohemia 

composed  '  tant  bien  que  mal '  last  night,  not 
'entre  la  poire  et  le  fromage,'  but  between  the 
tea  and  the  pears.  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  find 
it  as  dramatic  as  you  wished  ;  but  I  don't  feel  it 
otherwise,  and  as  Mahomet  can't  write  words  to 
the  mountain's  music,  the  mountain  must  try  and 
adapt  its  music  to  the  verses  of  Mahomet. 

"  SERENADE  APRES  LA  SIESTE. 

"  Berthe  aux  grands  yeux  d'azur,  ouvre  done  ta  paupiere, 
Chasse  les  reves  d'or  de  ton  leger  sommeil — 

Us  sont  la,  nos  amis  ;  cede  a  notre  priere 
Le  trone  prepare  n'attend  que  ton  reveil ; 

Le  soleil  a  cesse  de  regner  sur  la  terre, 
Viens  regner  sur  la  fete  et  sois  notre  soleil. 

Reponds  a  nos  accords  par  tes  accents  plus  doux 

Au  jardin  des  amours,  viens  6  viens  avec  nous. 

Au  jardin  des  amours  ta  place  est  reservee, 
Parmi  des  feux  de  joie  et  des  lilas  en  fleurs. 
Viens  reveiller  en  nous  de  nouvelles  ardeurs — 
Descends  avec  la  nuit,  ainsi  que  la  rosee — 
Tant  que  1'astre  d'argent  sourit  a  la  vallee, 

Toi,  bel  astre  d'amour,  viens  sourire  a  nos  coeurs  ! 
Reponds  a  nos  accords  par  tes  accents  plus  doux, 
Au  jardin  des  amours,  Berthe,  viens  avec  nous. 

Viens  avec  ta  couronne,  et  viens  avec  ta  lyre, 

Tes  chants  pour  nos  amis,  tes  doux  regards  pour  moi  ! 
Deja  j'entends  les  jeux  de  la  foule  en  emoi 

Sur  des  gazons  fleuris  .  .  .  oh  le  joyeux  delire  ! 

Si  tu  ne  descends  pas,  helas  !  on  pourra  dire  : 

38 


with  du  Maurier. 

'  Berthe  aux  grands  yeux  d'azur,  on  a  chante  sans  toi ! ' 
Reponds  a  nos  accords  par  tes  accents  plus  doux, 
Berthe  aux  grands  yeux  d'azur,  viens  6  viens  avec  nous  ! 

"  You  see  I  have  indulged  in  poetic  license  ; 
for  instance,  the  first  tenor  says  he  hears  the 
folks  doing  the  light  fantastic  toe.  One  might 
suppose  they  danced  in  sabots — mere  poetic 
license,  and  besides,  a  first  tenor  ought  to  have 
very  good  ears.  ...  So  now,  my  lad,  inspire 
yourself." 

What  the  result  of  his  appeal  to  my  inspira- 
tion may  have  been,  I  do  not  remember,  but  I 
find  this  is  what  he  writes  on  the  subject — 

"  CARISSIMO, — In  vain  have  I  taxed  Rag's  inven- 
tive powers  to  alter  the  last  stanza ;  we  must  e'en 
stick  to  'Ce  baiser-la.'  The  lines  I  have  underlined 
mean  that  I  don't  quite  approve  the  part  of  the 
music  that  comes  just  there,  as  in  the  musical 
phrase  you  have  set  to  it  I  fancy  there  is  a  want 
of  tenderness.  All  the  rest  is  stunning ;  the 
more  I  hums  it  the  more  I  likes  it,  but  I  can't 
exactly  come  your  accompaniment." 

No  wonder,  for  my  accompaniments  were 
usually  rather  indefinite  quantities,  subject  to 

39 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Maurier. 

the  mood  of  the  moment.  "  Moscheles  or 
Mephistopheles,  which  ? "  he  asks,  as  he  depicts 
me  at  the  piano,  perhaps  evolving  some  such 
accompaniment  from  the  depths  of  "  untrained 
inner  consciousness."  "  Eureka  "  he  might  have 


put  under  that  other  sketch,  where  his  own  hands 
have  at  last  found  some  long-sought  harmony  or 
chord  on  the  piano.  Another  drawing  there  is 
of  a  somewhat  later  period  which  he  calls  "In- 
spiration papillotique."  Again  I  am  at  the  piano, 

40 


"  INSPIRATION   PAPILLOTIQUE.  ' 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Maurier. 

my  eyes  raised  to  the  "  She  "  in  papillottes,  who 
floats  as  a  vision  in  the  clouds,  issuing  from  my 
ever-puffing  cigar,  whilst  at  my  feet  is  stretched 
the  meditative  form  of  my  friend,  and  under 
them  is  crushed  some  work  of  our  immortal 
colleague  Beethoven. 


DU   MAURIER   IMPROVISING. 


And  who  was  "She"  thus  to  inspire  us  ?  On  the 
supposition  that  most  people  are,  like  myself, 
interested  in  the  "  Shes  "  that  can  inspire,  I  may 
permit  myself  to  say  something  about  the  attrac- 
tive young  lady  who  was  able  to  lead  us  by  easy 
stages  from  the  vague  "  inspiration  papillotique  " 

43 


In  Bohemia 

to  an  admiration  which  might  be  said  to  culmi- 
nate in  flirtation.  I  don't  remember  either  of  us 
ever  trying  to  cut  the  other  out,  as  the  accom- 
panying sketch  seems  to  imply,  where  "  Rag  and 


HOW   RAG  TRIES  TO  DESILLUSIONER  CARRY  ON  BOBTAIL,   AND   BOBTAIL 
TRIES  TO  DITTO  DITTO  ON   RAG. 


Bobtail  fight  a  duel  for  Carry,  using  their  noses 
as  double-barrelled  pistols.  Shows  the  way  in 
which  Rag  tries  to  ddsillusioner  Carry  on  Bobtail, 
and  in  which  Bobtail  tries  to  ditto  ditto  on  Rag. 

44 


with  du  Maurier. 

Carry  being  on  this  side  of  the  rivals  is  not 
represented." 

The  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  we  shared 
fraternally  in  the  enjoyment  of  her  good  graces, 
he  having  the  pull  of  me  the  greater  part  of  the 
week,  and  only  suspending  operations  in  my 
favour  when  I  came  to  Malines  on  a  Saturday  to 
Monday  visit.  These  occasions  were  productive 
of  a  great  number  of  drawings  and  sketches, 
illustrating  our  little  adventures,  and  all  plainly 
showing  that  the  incidents  recorded  occurred  to 
us  at  that  pleasant  time  of  life,  when  bright 
illusions  and  buoyant  spirits  lead  the  way,  and 
when  sorrow  itself  has  more  of  the  rose  colour 
than  many  a  rose  of  a  later  day. 

Malines  was,  and  perhaps  is  still,  a  dull, 
deserted  city,  at  best  up  to  the  date  of  last 
century,  beating  the  record  for  dry-as-dustiness 
and  growing  dear  little  blades  of  grass  between 
its  cobble  stones.  It  boasts  of  a  great  many 
churches  and  of  a  very  great  many  more  priests. 
( Vide :  The  ingenious  use  which  Rag  makes  of 
Bobtail's  pliable  hat.)  In  addition  to  these  at- 
tractions, there  was,  however,  a  factor  of  para- 
mount interest  to  us.  Then  and  there,  just  as 
now  and  elsewhere,  there  were  pretty  girls  about, 

45 


In  Bohemia 

and  I  need  not  say  that,  as  both  of  us  were 
studying  art  and  devoting  our  best  energies  to 
the  cult  of  the  beautiful,  we  considered  it  our 
duty  to  take  special  notice  of  these  pretty  girls 
wherever  we  came  across  them.  It  is  probably 
the  conscientious  performance  of  his  duty  in  that 
direction  which  enabled  du  Maurier  to  evolve 


THE   INGENIOUS   USE   WHICH    RAG   MAKES   OF   BOBTAILS   PLIABLE   HAT. 

those  ever-attractive  and  sympathetic  types  of 
female  beauty  we  are  all  so  familiar  with.  Nor 
would  it  have  been  becoming  in  me,  who  had 
everything  to  learn,  to  lag  behind,  or  to  show 
less  ardour  in  the  pursuit  of  my  studies. 

Thus,    whilst    du     Maurier's    facile    pen    was 
throwing   off  black  and  white  sketches  of  Miss 

46 


with  du  Maurier. 

Carry,  it  was  reserved  for  me  to  paint  her  por- 
trait in  oils.  Her  real  name  was  Octavie,  not 
Carry  ;  that  appellation  we  had  most  unceremo- 
niously and  unpoetically  derived  from  "  Cigar." 
All  else  about  her  we  invested,  if  not  with  cere- 
mony with  a  full  amount  of  poetry.  And  cer- 
tainly there  was  a  subtle  quality  in  Carry,  well 
worthy  of  appreciation,  a  faculty  of  charming  and 
being  charmed,  of  giving  and  taking,  of  free 
and  easiness,  coupled  with  ladylike  reserve.  She 
seemed  to  be  born  with  the  intuitive  knowledge 
that  there  was  only  one  life  worth  living,  that  of 
the  Bohemian,  and  to  be  at  the  same  time  well 
protected  by  a  pretty  reluctance  to  admit  as  much. 
In  fact,  to  give  a  correct  idea  of  her  I  need  but 
say  her  soul  was  steeped  in  the  very  essence  of 
Trilbyism.  Having  got  to  Carry's  soul,  it  may 
not  be  inappropriate  to  say  something  also  about 
her  looks  ;  but  to  describe  good  looks  is,  as  we 
all  know,  deliberately  to  court  failure  ;  far  better 
request  every  man  to  conjure  up  his  own  type  of 
beauty  and  he  will  be  sure  to  be  interested  in  the 
picture  he  evolves.  That  man  will  be  nearest 
the  truth  whose  young  lady  has  a  rich  crop  of 
brown  curly  hair,  very  blue  inquisitive  eyes,  and  a 
figure  of  peculiar  elasticity. 

47 


In  Bohemia 

Octavie  L.,  dite  Carry,  was  the  daughter  of 
an  organist  who  had  held  a  good  position  at  one 
of  the  principal  churches  of  Malines.  When  he 
died  he  left  but  a  small  inheritance  to  his  widow  ; 
with  what  she  could  realise,  she  purchased  the 
goodwill  of  a  small  tobacconist's  store  and  set  up 
in  business.  Neither  the  mother  nor  the  daughter 
had  much  previous  knowledge  of  the  concern  they 
had  started,  and  they  were  consequently  not  very 
discriminating  in  the  selection  of  their  brands  ; 
but  what  was  lacking  in  connoisseurship  was  fully 
made  up  for  by  Mrs.  L.'s  obliging  manners  and 
by  Octavie's  blue  eyes.  These  had  been  steadily 
gaining  in  expression  since  she  first  opened  them 
about  seventeen  years  back.  Customers  soon 
came  in,  and  for  a  time  the  little  business  was  as 
flourishing  as  anything  could  well  be  in  Malines. 
The  average  citizen  of  so  ecclesiastically  con- 
servative, and  hereditarily  stationary  a  city  could 
hardly  be  expected  to  encourage  a  new  venture 
of  the  kind.  Still  even  there  there  were  some 
young  men  about  town,  a  sort  of  "jeunesse  dore," 
not  of  i8-carat  gold  perhaps,  but  a  "jeunesse" 
quite  equal  to  the  pleasant  task  of  buzzing  around 
the  fair  tobacconist.  Mrs.  L.  did  her  share  of 
chaperoning  ;  du  Maurier  and  I  supplied  the  rest, 

48 


with  du  Maurier. 

and  watched  over  her  with  chivalrous,  if  not  quite 
disinterested  devotion.  We  differed  in  every 
respect  from  the  type  of  the  young  man  of  the 
period  above  mentioned  ;  so  naturally  we  were 
bright  stars  in  Carry's  firmament ;  she  looked 
upon  us  as  superior  beings,  and,  granting  her 
points  of  comparison,  not  without  cause ;  du 
Maurier  could  draw  and  I  could  paint ;  he  could 


"  BESHREW   THEE,    NOBLE   SIR   RAGGE  !     LET   US   TO   THE   FAIR 
TOBACCOXISTE  !  ' 


sing  and  I  could  mesmerise,  and  couldn't  we  just 
both  talk  beautifully !  We  neither  of  us  en- 
courage hero-worship  now,  but  then  we  were 
"  bons  princes,"  and  graciously  accepted  Carry's 
homage  as  due  to  our  superior  merits. 

There  are  two  drawings  illustrative  of  that 
chivalrous  devotion  of  ours.  We  are  galloping 
along  on  our  noble  steeds,  richly  attired,  as  true 

49  G 


In  Bohemia 

knights  and  good  should  be  when  they  go  to  pay 
homage  to  beauty. 

"  Beshrew  thee,   noble   Sir  Ragge !    let  us  to 
the  fair  tobacconiste  !  " 


" SALUT   A   LA  GEXTE   ET  ACCORTE  PUCELLE  !  " 


"  Aye !  Gentle  Sir  Bobtaile  !  By  my  halidome, 
she's  passing  fair." 

The  second  drawing  shows  our  "  Salut  a  la 
Gente  et  accorte  pucelle  !  "  and  the  winning  smile 
with  which  Carry  would  receive  us. 

50 


with  du  Maurier. 

Mesmerism,  or,  as  the  fashion  of  to-day  calls 
it,  Hypnotism,  formed  so  frequent  a  topic  of 
conversation  and  speculation  between  du  Maurier 
and  myself,  that  it  takes  a  very  prominent  place 
in  my  recollections. 

In  Paris  I  had  had  opportunities  of  attending 
some  most  interesting  stances,  in  consequence  of 
which  I  soon  proceeded  to  investigate  the  mes- 
meric phenomena  on  my  own  account.  Now  I 
have  not  touched  the  fluid  for  some  thirty  years  ; 
I  swore  off  because  it  was  taking  too  much  out  of 
me  ;  but  I  look  back  with  pleasure  on  my  earlier 
experiments,  successes  I  may  say,  for  I  was  for- 
tunate enough  to  come  across  several  exceptional 
subjects.  Du  Maurier  was  particularly  interested 
in  one  of  these,  Virginie  Marsaudon,  and  had  a 
way  of  putting  puzzling  questions  concerning  her 
faculties  and  my  mesmeric  influence.  Virginie  was 
a  "femme  de  menage"  of  the  true  Parisian  type,  a 
devoted  elderly  creature,  a  sort  of  cross  between 
a  charwoman  and  a  housekeeper.  I  was  not  yet 
eighteen  when  I  first  went  to  Paris,  to  study 
under  my  cousin,  the  eminent  painter,  Henri 
Lehmann.  At  his  studio  I  found  Virginie  in- 
stalled as  the  presiding  genius  of  the  establish- 
ment, using  in  turn  broom  or  tub,  needle,  grill  or 


In  Bohemia 

frying-pan  as  the  occasion  might  require ;  the 
wide  range  of  her  powers  I  further  extended  by 
making  a  truly  remarkable  mesmeric  subject  of 
her.  My  debut  in  Paris  was  that  of  the  some- 
what bewildered  foreigner,  speaking  but  very 
indifferent  French,  and  she  had  from  the  first 
done  what  she  could  to  make  me  feel  at  home  in 
the  strange  city,  treating  me  with  truly  motherly 
care  and  devotion.  How  completely  she  took 
possession  of  me,  is  shown  by  a  passage  in 
a  letter  she  wrote  when  I  was  ill  in  Leipsic, 
where  I  had  gone  on  a  visit  to  my  parents.  After 
expressing  her  anxiety  and  her  regret  at  not  being 
there  to  nurse  me,  she  emphatically  says  : — "  Je 
rends  Madame,  votre  mere,  responsable  de  votre 
sante  (I  make  Madame,  your  mother,  respon- 
sible for  your  health).  It  needed  but  little  to 
lead  her  on  from  a  state  of  docile  and  genial 
dependence  to  one  of  unconscious  mesmeric  sub- 
jection, and  so,  a  few  passes  shaping  her  course, 
I  willed  her  across  the  boundary  line  that  sepa- 
rates us  from  the  unknown,  a  line  which,  thanks 
to  science,  is  daily  being  extended.  Madame 
veuve  Marsaudon  was  herself  an  incorrigible  dis- 
believer in  the  phenomena  of  mesmerism,  but  as 
a  subject  her  faculties  were  such  as  to  surprise 
and  convert  many  a  scoffer. 

52 


with  du  Maurier. 

At  the  seances,  to  which  I  invited  my  friends 
and  a  few  scientific  outsiders,  I  always  courted 
the  fullest  investigation,  taking  it  as  the  first 
duty  of  the  mesmerist  to  show  cause  why  he 
should  not  be  put  down  as  a  charlatan.  So 
we  had  tests  and  counter-tests,  evidence  and 
counter-evidence  ;  there  were  doctors  to  feel 
the  pulse  and  to  scrutinise  the  rigidity  of  the 
muscles,  experts  to  propound  scientific  ifs  and 
buts,  and  wiseacres  generally  to  put  spokes  in 
the  wheel  of  progress,  as  is  their  playful  way, 
wherever  they  find  that  wheel  in  motion.  It 
was  doubly  satisfactory,  then,  that  the  good 
faith  of  subject  and  mesmerist  could  be  con- 
clusively proved. 

One  of  these  seances  led  to  a  rather  amusing 
incident.  One  night  I  was  awakened  from  first 
slumbers  by  a  sharp  ring  at  my  bell,  and  when, 
after  some  parleying,  I  opened  the  door,  I  found 
myself  confronted  by  two  individuals.  One  I 
recognised  as  an  "  inquirer "  who  had  been 
brought  to  my  rooms  some  time  previously ;  the 
other  was  a  lad  I  had  not  seen  before.  The 
inquirer,  I  ascertained,  having  carefully  watched 
my  modus  operandi  on  the  occasion  of  his  visit, 
had  next  tried  experiments  of  his  own.  In  this 

53 


instance  he  had  succeeded  in  mesmerising  a  lad, 
but  had  found  it  impossible  to  recall  him  to  his 
normal  condition.  So,  securing  him  by  a  leather 
strap  fastened  round  his  waist,  he  led  him  through 
the  streets  of  Paris  to  my  rooms.  There  we 
both  tried  our  powers  upon  him,  the  result 
being  very  unsatisfactory.  The  youth,  feeling 
himself  freed  from  one  operator  and  not  sub- 
jected by  the  other,  refused  allegiance  to  either, 
and,  being  of  a  pugnacious  temperament,  he 
squared  up  and  commenced  striking  out  at  both 
of  us.  It  was  not  without  considerable  difficulty 
that  I  re-mesmerised  him  completely,  and  then, 
having  previously  prepared  his  mind  to  account 
naturally  for  his  presence  in  my  rooms,  I 
succeeded  in  awakening  him,  and  all  ended 
happily.  The  inquirer  was  duly  grateful,  the 
youth  went  home  strapless  and  none  the  worse 
for  the  adventure,  and  I  proceeded  to  do  some 
very  sound  sleeping  on  my  own  account. 

I  would  say  more  of  my  stances  and  all  the 
recollections  they  evoke,  were  I  not  impatient  to 
get  back  to  du  Maurier  and  to  Malines.  Once 
on  the  experiences  of  those  days,  I  have  much 
to  relate — pros  and  cons,  if  you  please,  for  that 
subtle  magnetic  fluid,  which,  without  physical 

54 


with  du  Maiirier. 

contact,  one  human  being  can  transmit  to  another, 
is  a  ticklish  one  to  handle.  I  cannot  pack 
my  pen,  though,  and  take  train  of  thought  to 
the  Belgian  city  without  mentioning  my  friend 
Allonge,  the  well-known  French  artist,  then  a 
fellow-student  of  mine  at  the  Ecole  des  Beaux 
Arts.  A  chance  contact  of  our  knees  as  we  sat 
closely  packed  with  some  sixty  other  students 
put  me  on  the  track  of  a  new  subject,  perhaps 
the  most  interesting  one  it  was  ever  my  good 
fortune  to  come  across.  But  of  him  another 
time. 

Using  the  privilege  of  a  mesmerist,  I  elect 
to  will  the  reader — that  is,  if  natural  slumber 
has  not  ere  this  put  him  beyond  my  control- 
across  the  frontier,  into  the  back  parlour  of 
Mrs.  L.'s  tobacco  store.  There  I  am  operating 
on  a  boy — such  a  stupid  little  Flemish  boy  that 
no  amount  of  fluid  could  ever  make  him  clever. 
How  I  came  to  treat  him  to  passes  I  don't 
remember ;  probably  I  used  him  as  an  object- 
lesson  to  amuse  Carry.  All  I  recollect  is  that 
I  gave  him  a  key  to  hold,  and  made  him  believe 
that  it  was  red-hot  and  burnt  his  fingers,  or  that 
it  was  a  piece  of  pudding  to  be  eaten  presently, 
thereby  making  him  howl  and  grin  alternately. 

55 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Maiirier. 

In  the  middle  of  our  stance  Carry  is  called 
away  by  a  customer,  one  of  the  swells  of  Malines 
much  addicted  to  a  poetical  expression  of  his 
admiration  for  the  fair  sex  in  general  and  for 
Carry  in  particular.  Greatly  to  our  edification, 
she  was  pleased  to  improve  the  occasion  by 
leading  him  on,  within  our  hearing,  to  make 
what  is  commonly  called  a  fool  of  himself. 
The  pleasant  incident  is  recorded  in  the  accom- 
panying sketch. 

But  mesmerism  meant  more  than  incidental 
amusement  or  even  scientific  experiment  to  us 
in  those  Antwerp  and  Malines  days.  When 
one  stands  on  the  threshold  of  a  world  of 
mysteries  one  cannot  but  long  to  bridge  over 
the  chasm  that  separates  one  from  the  gods, 
the  fairies,  or  the  fiends.  To  be  sure,  we 
should  have  been  glad  if  we  coulcl  have  got 
"  light,  more  light "  thrown  on  our  steps,  but, 
failing  that,  we  tried  to  find  our  way  as  best 
we  could  in  the  mist.  We  loved  that  never- 
attainable  Will-o'-the-Wisp,  "Truth,"  for  its  own 
dear  Bohemian  sake  ;  so,  guided  by  Fancy  and 
Fantasy,  we  made  frequent  inroads  into  the 
boundless  land  where  unknown  forces  pick  up 
our  poor  dear  little  conception  of  the  Impos- 

56 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Maiirier. 

sible,  and  use  it  as  the  starting-point  of  never- 
to-be-exhausted  possibilities. 

Such  a  land  was  particularly  well  suited  to 
the  state  of  our  outward-bound  minds  and  our 
excelsior  appetites.  It  was  on  one  or  the  other 
of  these  excursions,  I  feel  confident,  that  du 
Maurier  was  inoculated  with  the  germs  that 
were  eventually  to  develop  into  Trilbyism  and 
Svengalism.  No  wonder,  then,  if  in  more  than 
one  of  his  letters  and  sketches  the  future  de- 
lineator of  those  characters  embodies  bold  dreams 
and  fancies,  or  if  on  one  occasion  he  depicts 
himself,  with  fixed  gaze  and  hair  erect,  sitting 
bolt  upright  on  my  hospitable  sofa,  thrilled 
and  overawed  by  the  midnight  presence  of 
the  uncanny,  which  I  had  evoked  for  his 
benefit. 

"Yes,  governor,  it's  all  very  well  to  ask  a 
nervous  fellow  to  Antwerp  and  amuse  him  and 

make  him  ever  so  jolly  and  comfortable But 

why,  when  the  bleak  November  wind  sobs  against 
the  lattice  and  disturbs  the  dead  ashes  in  the 
grate,  when  everything  is  damned  queer  and 
dark,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know — why 
should  you  make  nervous  fellows'  flesh  creep  by 
talk  about  mesmerism,  and  dead  fellows  coming 

59 


In  Bohemia 

to  see  live   fellows  before  dying,   and    the   Lord 
knows  what  else  ?     Why,  Gad  !    it's  horrid  !  " 

My  rooms  in  Antwerp  were  the  scene  of  many 
a  festive  gathering.  We  always  spoke  of  them 
in  the  plural ;  it  sounded  better,  but  in  reality 


THE   MIDNIGHT   PRESENCE   OF  THE   UNCANNY. 

there  was  only  one  room  with  two  small  alcoves. 
Studies  and  sketches  covered  the  walls  or  littered 
the  floor,  and  the  genial  figure  of  a  skeleton,  in 
very  perfect  condition,  stood  in  the  corner  by  the 
piano.  At  first  it  came  with  a  view  to  instructing 

60 


with  du  Maumer. 

me  in  the  Science  of  Anatomy,  but  soon,  putting 
aside  any  didactic  pretensions,  my  bony  professor 
became  quite  a  companion  and  friend  ;  it  was 
thus  natural  that  on  those  occasions  when  guests 
had  been  convened  to  my  rooms,  he  would  take 
a  leading  part,  generally  appearing  gracefully 
draped  and  appropriately  illuminated,  and  thus 
forming  a  fitting  background  to  the  gay  pro- 
ceedings of  the  evening.  We  had  music,  recita- 
tion, and  acting,  mostly  of  an  improvised,  home- 
made character.  The  sounds  thereof  were  not 
confined,  however,  to  the  narrow  limits  of  home, 
but  spread  far  beyond  it,  a  fact  which  the  neigh- 
bours, I  am  sure,  would  have  been  at  any  time 
ready  most  emphatically  to  attest. 

In  justice  to  myself  I  may  say  that  I  was 
primarily  answerable  for  the  magnitude  of  the 
sound  waves,  but  I  am  bound  to  add  that  my 
example  was  followed  and  even  improved  upon 
by  the  more  lung-gifted  of  my  companions. 
Amongst  the  milder  forms  of  entertainment  was 
my  impersonation  of  Rachel.  That  grand  actress 
I  had  often  seen  in  Paris,  and  had,  more  than 
once,  shivered  in  my  shoes  as  she  annihilated 
the  Tyrant,  pouring  forth  the  vials  of  her  wrath 
and  indignation  in  the  classical  language  of 

61 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Maurier. 

Racine  and  Corneille.  With  those  accents  still 
ringing  in  my  ears  I  came  to  Antwerp,  and  there, 
when  surrounded  by  sympathetic  friends,  the 
spirit  would  sometimes  move  me,  and  I  would 
feel — excuse  the  conceit  of  youth — as  if  I  too 
could  have  been  a  great  female  Tragedian, 
had  Fate  not  otherwise  disposed  of  me.  In 
such  moments  I  would  seize  the  blade  of 
the  paper-knife,  and  use  the  blood  of  the  beet- 
root, drape  myself  in  the  classical  folds  of  the 
bed-sheet,  and  go  for  the  Tyrant,  hissing  fearful 
hexameters  of  scorn  and  vituperation  into  his 
ears,  and  usually  winding  up  with  a  pose  so 
magnificently  triumphant  that  it  would  bring 
down  any  house  which  was  not  of  the  most  solid 
construction. 

Another  time  the  cushion  yonder  would  be  my 
child — the  orthodox  long-lost  one — "  It  is  ! — It 
is  not! — It  is! — Let  me  clasp  it  to  my  other 
cushion!"  "  Toi  mon  fils  cheri.  Ange  de  mon 
enfer,  douleur  de  mes  loisirs  !  " 

The  celebration  of  one  of  my  birthdays  was  an 
event  rescued  from  oblivion  by  du  Maurier's 
pencil.  He  illustrates  our  lively  doings  on  that 
day  and  my  appearance  the  next  morning. 
'*  Felix's  mamma,"  he  says,  had  worked  a  very 


FELIX   LOOKS  VERY   SEEDY   AFTER   HIS   BIRTHDAY. 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Maurier. 

pretty  cap  for  Felix,  and  Felix  had  it  on  the 
morning  after  his  birthday,  and  Felix  found  that 
though  the  cap  was  very  pretty,  it  made  him 
look  very  seedy." 

In  the  other  drawing  he  gives  striking  likenesses 
of  the  friends  assembled  to  celebrate  the  festive 
occasion.  They  had  come  together  in  the 
evening,  much  in  the  same  spirit  that  had  led 
them  under  my  windows  in  the  morning,  with 
a  brass  band  and  an  enormous  bouquet  of 
cabbages,  carrots,  and  cauliflowers.  There,  on 
the  left,  is  Van  Lerius  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  next  to  him  du  Maurier ;  then  Heyer- 
mans,  Bource,  and  all  the  other  chums,  and, 
though  last  not  least,  the  proud  bearer  of  the 
steaming  punch-bowl.  What  a  set  of  jolly  good 
fellows  !  It  is  quite  a  pleasure  to  pore  over  the 
sketch  and  contemplate  du  Maurier's  phiz,  ex- 
pressing his  unbounded  capacity  of  enjoyment. 
I  can  see  him  taking  points  that  fell  flat  with 
the  other  fellows.  Quite  a  pleasure,  too,  to 
think  of  Huysmans'  big  nose  and  Van  Lerius' 
bald  head,  of  the  tall  and  the  short,  of  spindle 
shanks  and  chubby  face. 

Where  are  they  all  now  ?  Some  thirty-five 
years  have  elapsed,  and  the  whirligig  of  time  has 

67 


In  Bohemia  with  dit,  Maurier. 

been  revolving  with  unfailing  regularity,  dropping 
us  here  and  there,  as  caprice  dictated,  some  to 
stand,  some  to  fall.  What  has  become  of  the 
threads  of  friendship,  picked  up  at  the  studio  or 
the  cafe*,  perhaps  whilst  puzzling  over  the  chess- 
board, or  when  harmonising  in  four-part  song  ? 
Golden  threads  ;  some  destined  to  be  spun  out 
and  to  become  solidly  intertwined  ;  others  to  be 
hopelessly  entangled  or  cruelly  snapped  asunder 
by  the  inexorable  Fates.  Where  shall  I  find 
them  now,  those  friends  and  boon  companions  of 
my  Bohemian  days  ?  Here,  there,  and  every- 
where— perhaps  nowhere !  Some  I  see  trotting 
briskly  along  the  high  -  road  of  life,  others 
dragging  wearily  through  its  tangled  bypaths. 
Yet  again  others  resting  under  a  big,  cold  stone 
that  bears  an  inscription  and  a  couple  of  dates, 
fixed  just  above  their  heads. 


68 


II. 


I  WELL  remember  a  certain  "  barriere  that 
protected  the  level  crossing  just  outside  the 
Malines  Station.  It  was  but  an  ordinary  piece 
of  hinged  timber,  but  we,  that  is,  du  Maurier  and 
I,  can  never  forget  it  ;  for,  as  we  stood  by  its 
side  we  vowed  that  come  what  might,  we  would 
never  travel  along  that  line  and  past  the  old 
gate  without  recalling  that  summer  evening  and 
re-thinking  the  thoughts  of  our  early  days. 

It  was  also  there,  one  evening,  that  we 
adopted  our  never-to-be-forgotten  aliases — Rag 
and  Bobtail.  We  had  chanced  upon  a  chum  of 
ours  named  Sprenk  lounging  across  that  old 
barriere,  and  some  fortuitous  circumstance 
having  revealed  the  fact  that  his  initials  were 
T.  A.  G.,  we  forthwith  dubbed  him  Tag.  Out  of 
that  very  naturally  grew  the  further  development : 
Rag,  Tag,  and  Bobtail. 

69 


In  Bohemia 

T.  A.  G.  was  an  Englishman,  strong  and 
hearty  and  considerably  taller  than  either  of  us. 
That  alone  would  have  sufficed  to  secure  him 
the  friendship  of  du  Maurier,  who  ever  wor- 
shipped at  the  shrine  of  physical  greatness.  He 
loved  to  look  up  to  the  man  of  six-foot-some- 
thing, or  to  sit  in  the  shadow  of  the  woman  of 
commanding  presence,  his  appreciation  of  size 
culminating  in  the  love  of  "  Chang,"  that  dog  of 
dogs,  whom  we  have  all  learnt  to  admire,  as  we 
followed  his  career  through  the  volumes  of  the 
immortal  Weekly,  presided  over  by  Toby  and 
his  master. 

I  somehow  associate  Tag  with  whisky  and 
water ;  not  that  he  took  it  much  or  often,  but  he 
gave  one  the  impression  that  whatever  others 
might  do  when  amongst  the  benighted  foreigner, 
he,  for  one,  would  not  let  a  good  old  English 
custom  drop  into  disuse.  Looking  at  Tag  one 
intuitively  felt  that  his  father  before  him  had 
taken  his  moderate  glass  of  W.  and  W.,  and 
that,  if  he  married  and  had  sons,  they  would  do 
likewise.  I  do  not  think  that  he  was  particularly 
fond  of  art  or  artists,  unless  inasmuch  as  they 
were  brother  Bohemians.  He  was  engaged,  or, 
at  least,  he  was  generally  just  about  to  be 

70 


with  du  Maurier. 

engaged,  in  some  business,  and  whilst  waiting 
for  the  opportune  moment  to  commence  opera- 
tions, he  would  settle  down  to  an  expectant 
present.  The  golden  opportunity  he  was  looking 
for  was  plainly  visible  on  his  horizon,  but  it  had 
a  way  of  remaining  stationary,  and  as  it  was  con- 
trary to  Tag's  nature  to  move  unless  under  great 
pressure,  the  two  never  met. 

In  the  meanwhile  Tag  was  one  of  our  trio  of 
chums  ;  he  was  a  good  deal  with  us  when  we 
were  out  and  about,  bent  on  storming  the  world, 
or  climbing  Parnassus  ;  we  did  the  climbing,  he 
the  looking  on,  the  parts  thus  being  distributed 
to  our  mutual  satisfaction.  He  was  always 
pleasantly  acquiescent,  and  had  the  rare  gift  of 
making  himself  useless  agreeably ;  a  common 
bond  of  interest  we  had  in  the  Colorado  claro 
and  oscuro,  whether  the  fair  or  dark,  applied  to 
the  friendly  weed  or  the  still  more  friendly  fair 
sex. 

He  describes  himself  pretty  correctly  in  a  letter 
he  wrote  to  us  from  Paris,  when  he  says  :— 

"  Since  my  arrival  here  my  notes  of  what  I 
have  to  do  represent  what  I  have  not  done,  and 
if  it  be  true  that  the  infernal  regions  are  paved 


In  Bohemia 


with  good  intentions,  I  shall  be  received  on  my 
arrival  by  a  deputation  of  souls  to  thank  me  for 
my  contribution  to  the  pavement." 

There  are  sketches  in  which  Tag's  eloquence 


RAG. 


is  confined  to  one  exclamation,  "  Matilda  !  "  But 
whether  that  name  was  coupled  with  present 
felicity  or  future  hopes  I  do  not  recollect.  But 
du  Maurier's  lines  describe  him  and  our  chumship 

72 


with  du  Maiirier. 

much  better  than  any   words   of  mine  could  do. 
He  says  :— 

"  To  BOBTAIL. 

Oh,  fortunatos  nimium,  sua  si  bona  norint 
All  lazy  beggars  like  me " 

"  In  the  sunshine  of  April,  the  April  of  life, 

You  and  I  and  our  Tag  make  three  ; 
And  few  will  deny  that  for  such  close  chums 
A  queer  set  of  fellows  are  we. 

For  I  walk  slowly,  and  you  walk  fast, 

And  Tag  lies  down  (not  to  fall)  ; 
You  think  of  the  Present,  /  think  of  the  Past, 

And  Tag  thinks  of  nothing  at  all. 

Yet  who  shall  be  lucky,  and  who  shall  be  rich  ? 

Whether  both,  neither,  one,  or  all  three  ; 
Is  a  mystery  which,  Dame  Fortune,  the  witch, 

Tells  neither  Tag,  Bobtail,  or  me  ! 

(RAG)." 

The  portraits  of  Rag  and  Bobtail  head  the  page. 
A  space  was  left  for  Tag's,  but  never  filled. 

Apropos  of  plans  and  prospects  on  Tag's 
distant  horizon,  I  find  a  passage  in  one  of  his 
letters,  dated  November,  1857,  which  is  well 
worth  recording.  I  quote  it  to  give  myself  and 
my  fellow  Europeans  an  opportunity  of  rejoicing 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Maurier. 

that  Tag's  scheme  belonged  to  those  that  were 
not  to  be  realised.      It  runs  thus  : — 


"  As  du  Maurier's  eye,  though  better,  will,  most 
probably,  not  allow  him  to  resume  his  profession 
as  a  painter,  we  have  determined  to  try  our 
fortune  together  in  Australia,  and  mean  to  start 
from  here  early  in  February.  He  hopes  to 
obtain  employment  by  drawing  sketches,  carica- 
tures, &c.,  for  the  Melbourne  P^^,nch,  and  other 
illustrated  papers.  You  know  how  eminently 
suited  he  is  for  that  kind  of  work,  and  we  hear 
that  an  artist  of  talent  of  that  description  is  much 
wanted  out  there,  and  would  be  sure  to  do 
exceedingly  well.  I,  of  course,  do  not  intend 
to  start  in  that  line,  but  hope  to  be  able  to 
support  myself  for  the  first  few  years,  after 
which  I  shall  establish  myself  in  business  on 
my  own  account,  and  I  trust,  with  luck,  I  may 
return  home  in  the  course  of  from  ten  to  fifteen 
years,  if  not  with  immense  riches,  at  all  events 
with  enough  to  enable  me  to  pass  the  remainder 
of  my  '  old  age  '  in  peace  and  comfort." 

Did  Tag  ever  go,  I  wonder  ?  Did  he  come 
back,  and  has  he  perhaps  been  enjoying  his  "  old 

74 


WHAT  THE  DEUCE  AM  I  TO  DO  WITH 
THIS  CONFOUNDED  ROPE  ?  HANG 
MYSELF,  I  WONDER." 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Maurier. 

age "  somewhere  over  here  for  the  last  thirty 
years  ? — I  wish  you  would  say  what  has  become 
of  you,  my  dear  Tag.  I'm  sure  we  should  be 
chums  again,  if  you're  anything  like  the  dear 
old  stick-in-the-mud  of  former  days  !  Don't  you 
recollect  that  sketch  of  Rag's?  I  had  nearly 
forgotten  to  mention  it,  the  one  with  the  three 
ropes  of  life.  I  am  climbing  ahead  with  fiendish 
energy.  Rag  follows,  steadily  ascending,  weighted 
as  he  is  with  a  treasure,  a  box  marked  "  Mrs. 
Rag,  with  care,"  and  your  noble  form  is  squatting 
on  the  floor,  a  glass  of  the  best  blend  at  your 
feet,  and  a  cigar  you  are  enjoying  from  which 
rises  the  legend  that  makes  you  say,  "  What  the 
deuce  am  I  to  do  with  this  confounded  rope  ? 
Hang  myself,  I  wonder  ? "  Nonsense,  to  be 
sure  ;  but  do  come  and  tell  me  what  you  have 
done  with  the  rope,  or  say  where  I  can  find  you 
still  squatting. 

That  music  of  a  certain  spontaneous  kind,  the 
music  within  us  which  we  were  ever  longing  to 
bring  to  the  surface,  was  a  bond  of  union  between 
du  Maurier  and  myself,  I  have  already  mentioned ; 
but  that  bond  was  to  be  greatly  strengthened  by 
the  music  that  great  musicians  on  more  than  one 
occasion  lavished  on  us.  First  came  Louis 

77 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Maurier. 

Brassin,  the  pianist.  He  had  studied  under 
Moscheles  at  the  Conservatorio  of  Leipsic,  the 
city  of  Bach  and  Mendelssohn  fame  ;  and  there, 
from  the  days  of  his  boyhood,  he  had  belonged 
to  the  little  circle  of  intimates  who  frequently 
gathered  around  the  master  at  his  house. 

When,  a  few  years  later,  he  came  to  Belgium 
on  a  concert  tour,  he  and  I  found  no  difficulty 
in  taking  up  the  old  friendship  contracted  in  my 
father's  house,  just  where  we  had  left  it.  The 
boy  had  become  the  man,  the  student  had 
developed  into  the  artist  and  thorough  musician. 
He  was  the  boonest  of  boon  companions,  and  his 
jokes  were  so  broad  that  they  often  reminded  one, 
in  their  crudeness  and  their  rudeness,  of  certain 
passages  in  Mozart's  early  letters.  To  say  that  he 
spoke  French  with  a  German  accent  a  la  Sven- 
gali  would  be  putting  it  very  mildly  ;  Teutonic 
gutturals  would  most  unceremoniously  invade 
the  sister  language  ;  d's  and  t's,  b's  and  p's  would 
ever  change  places,  as  they  are  made  to  do  in 
some  parts  of  the  Fatherland.  With  all  that,  he 
rejoiced  in  a  delightful  fluency  of  speech,  con- 
veying quaint  and  original  thought.  There  was 
something  decidedly  interesting  about  Brassin's 
looks,  but  his  figure  gave  one  the  impression  of 

78 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Maurier. 

having  been  very  carelessly  put  together ;  when 
he  walked  his  head  went  back  on  his  shoulders, 
and  his  hat  went  back  on  his  head  ;  his  long 
arms  dangled,  pendulum-like,  by  his  sides,  while 
his  lanky  legs,  dragging  along  anyhow,  were 
ever  lagging  behind  one  another.  But  when  he 
opened  the  piano  and  put  hands  and  feet  to  keys 
and  pedal,  he  was  not  the  same  individual.  He 
would  turn  on  nerve  and  muscle-power,  and 
would  hurl  avalanches  of  music  and  torrents  of 
notes  at  his  audience  till  he,  in  his  turn,  was 
overwhelmed  with  thunders  of  applause.  And 
those  were  the  days,  we  must  remember,  when 
but  few  men  could  play  at  a  greater  rate  than 
twenty  to  twenty-five  miles  an  hour  ;  when  grand 
pianos  were  not  yet  ironclad  and  armour-plated, 
or  had  learnt  proudly  to  display  the  maker's 
name  on  their  broadside  when  they  went  forth 
to  do  battle  on  the  concert  field. 

Brassin  used  to  draw  inane  caricatures  of  him- 
self, which  he  would  present  to  us  with  a 
triumphant  laugh  of  immoderate  calibre.  I  have 
preserved  some  of  these,  but  decidedly  prefer 
du  Maurier's  rendering  of  our  common  friend. 
In  the  accompanying  drawing  he  shows  him  at 
the  piano,  entertaining  us  on  "  A  rainy  day." 

81  L 


In  Bohemia 

"Ah!  Felix,  amico  mio,"  he  says,  "may  thy 
room  be  always  as  jolly,  thy  coffee  be  ever  so 
sweet,  as  on  that  happy  morning !  May  Brassin's 
fingers  be  ever  as  brilliant  and  inspired !  May 
Tag  be  ever  as  lazy,  and  with  equal  satisfaction 
to  himself,  and  may  I  never  be  blinder  !  Amen." 

That  sketch  admirably  pourtrays  the  lankiness 
and  flabbiness  of  Brassin's  figure,  contrasting  as 
it  did  with  the  strength  of  the  wrist  and  the  grip 
of  the  fingers.  He  was  certainly  a  fine  subject 
for  du  Maurier,  whom  I  always  looked  upon  as 
a  sort  of  vivisector  of  music  and  musicians,  of 
their  methods  and  their  moods.  A  brilliant  career 
awaited  Louis  Brassin,  but  it  was  to  be  suddenly 
and  unexpectedly  cut  off.  He  died  some  ten 
years  ago  at  the  age  of  forty-four. 

In  1858  my  father  came  on  a  visit  to  Antwerp 
with  my  mother  and  my  youngest  sister,  Clara. 
Wherever  my  father  took  up  his  abode,  even 
temporarily,  a  grand  piano  would  in  the  natural 
course  of  events  gravitate  towards  him,  and  a 
select  circle  of  art  lovers  would  soon  be  grouped 
around  it.  Amongst  the  friends  in  the  Antwerp 
circle  were — Van  Lerius,  Tadema,  Baron  Leys, 
Heyermans,  and  Bource.  My  sister  at  that 
time  was  a  bright  and  happy  creature,  not  long 

82 


with  du  Maurier 

out  of  her  teens,  full  of  hopes — alas  !  never  to  be 
realised,  and  of  talents  never  to  be  matured. 
The  large  dark  eyes — they  seemed  the  gift  of  he 


CLARA   MOSCHELES. 


godmother,  the  famous  Malibran — reflected  the 
artist's  soul,  and  a  grand  soprano  voice  spoke  its 
powerful  language.  Du  Maurier  and  she  were 

83 


In  Bohemia 

soon  on  a  brother  and  sisterly  footing,  and  they 
ever  remained  so. 

Of  the  pleasant  evenings  we  of  the  circle  spent 
together  I  recall  one  in  particular.  My  sister  had 
been  singing  one  song  after  another  ;  my  father 
was  engaged  in  an  animated  conversation  with 
Stefani,  the  pianist,  on  the  relative  merits  of 
Mendelssohn  and  Schumann.  Du  Maurier  and  I 
had  been  sitting  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room, 
talking  of  his  eyes.  At  that  time  one  doctor 
held  out  hopes  ;  another,  a  great  authority,  had 
considered  it  his  painful  duty  not  to  conceal  the 
truth  from  his  patient,  and  had,  with  much  unction 
and  the  necessary  complement  of  professional 
phraseology,  prepared  him  for  the  worst.  The 
sight  of  one  eye  had  gone,  that  of  the  other 
would  follow.  Those  were  anxious  days,  both 
for  him  and  for  his  friends ;  but,  whatever  he 
felt,  he  could  talk  about  his  trouble  with  perfect 
equanimity,  and  I  often  wondered  how  quietly  he 
took  it,  and  how  cheerfully  he  would  tell  me  that 
he  was  "  fearfully  depressed."  That  evening  I 
had  been  putting  the  chances  of  a  speedy  re- 
covery before  him,  and  making  predictions  based, 
I  am  bound  to  admit,  on  nothing  more  sub- 
stantial than  my  ardent  hopes.  But  du  Maurier 

84 


with  du  Maurier, 

was  too  much  of  a  philosopher  to  be  satisfied 
with  such  encouragement  as  I  could  give,  and 
said  :  "  No,  I  had  better  face  the  enemy  and  be 
prepared  for  the  worst.  If  it  comes,  you  see,  my 
dear  fellow,  there  is  Nature's  law  of  compen- 
sation, and  I  firmly  believe  that  one  cannot  lose 
one  faculty  without  being  compensated  by  some 
great  gain  elsewhere.  I  suppose  one  gets  to  see 
more  inside  as  things  grow  darker  outside.  If 
one  can't  paint,  one  must  do  something  else- 
write  perhaps  ;  that  is,  as  long  as  one  can,  and 
then,  if  the  steam  accumulates,  and  one  wants  a 
safety  valve  to  let  it  off,  dictate."  Happily,  to 
this  day  he  writes,  and  need  not  have  recourse  to 
dictation. 

When  we  joined  our  friends  we  found  Van 
Lerius  and  Heyermans  had  been  pressed  into  the 
service,  and  were  making  sketches  for  my 
sister's  album.  Du  Maurier  took  up  a  pencil, 
and,  with  a  few  characteristic  touches,  drew  that 
sister's  eyes.  "  Quand  je  les  vois,"  he  wrote 
underneath,  "j'oublie  les  miens.  (Reflexion 
d'un  futur  aveugle.)  When  I  see  them  I 
forget  my  own.  (Reflections  of  a  man  going 
blind.)" 

Soon  the  main  business  of   the   evening  was 
85 


In  Bohemia 

resumed.  Was  it  Beethoven's  sonata  for  piano 
and  violin,  or  a  mighty  improvisation  on  classical 
themes  that  came  first  ?  I  do  not  recollect ;  but 
I  remember  that  du  Maurier's  rendering  of 
Balfe's  "When  other  lips  and  other  hearts," 
with  my  scratch  accompaniment,  was  warmly 
greeted  by  all  lips  and  hearts  present. 

When  these  pleasant  evenings  had  come  to  an 
end,  the  friendly  intercourse  was  not  allowed  to 
drop,  and  so  a  number  of  sketches  by  her  new 
friends  found  their  way  into  Miss  Clara's  album. 

In  the  following  winter,  when  I  left  on  a  short 
visit  to  Leipsic,  he  sent  her  a  few  lines  through 
me.  I  quote  from  his  letter  because  the  wording 
is  peculiar,  and  illustrates  his  capacity  for  express- 
ing himself  in  a  language  that  he  had  to  evolve 
from  his  inner  consciousness  :— 

"  Herr  Rag  schickt  zu  Fraulein  Moscheles 
sein  empfehlung  und  ihren  bruder ;  es  wird 
horlicht  gebeten  das  sie  wird  die  sach  reciprokiren, 
und  in  fiinftzen  dagen  ihr  empfehlung  und  seinen 
freund  zuruck  schicken." 

For  the  benefit  of  those  whose  inner  conscious- 
ness is  not  in  touch  with  the  above,  I  give  the 
English  version  :— 

"  Mr.  Rag  sends  his  greeting  and  her  brother 
86 


with  du  Maurier. 

to  Miss  Moscheles,  and  kindly  requests  her  to 
reciprocate  the  proceeding  in  a  fortnight  by  re- 
turning her  greeting  and  his  friend." 


HERR   RAG   SCHICKT  ZU   FRAULEIN   MOSCHELES   SEIN   EMPFEHLUXG 
UND   IHREN   BRUDER." 


When  I  think  how  easily  and  spontaneously 
such  sketches  dropped  from  his  pen,  I  am 
reminded  of  a  passage  in  one  of  Mendelssohn's 
letters  to  my  mother ;  he  sends  her  the  Mailied 
and  says  :  "  This  morning  a  song  came  to  me. 
I  really  must  write  it  down  for  you."  So,  too, 
from  the  first  the  pen-and-ink  compositions  came 
to  du  Maurier.  His  talent  manifested  itself  not 
only  in  a  desire  to  illustrate  this  or  that  incident 
or  adventure,  but  also  in  his  inexhaustible  capacity 

87 


In  Bohemia 

for  making  something  out  of  nothing,  and  as  the 
nothing  was  never  lacking,  he  might  well  say  : 
"  Dear  Bobtail,  I  will  never  write 
without  sending  my  compliments 
to  thine  album."  His  rendering 
of  "  Cher  Lix,"  for  instance, 
takes  the  shape  of  a  graceful 
monogram,  or  diplogram,  or  whatever  I  ought  to 
call  a  combination  of  our  two  profiles  and  my 
name. 


He  starts  a    short    missive    with    a  sketch    of 
himself  seated  in   his  trunk,  pipe   in  mouth,  and 

88 


with  du  Maurier. 

says :  "  Dear  Bobtail,  I  write  to  you  out  of 
sheer  idleness,  so  as  to  have  an  excuse  not  to 
pack  up  for  the  next  half-hour."  Or  he  draws 
himself  looking  over  my  shoulder  whilst  I  am 


AX   INDISCREET   FELLOW   LOOKING  OVER   MY- 


writing    to    my   sister   and    puts    the    supposed 
context  of  my  letter  :— 

"  Bobtail  writes  (in  German  of  course) : 
"  I  won't    write    any    more,  for   there's  an  in- 
discreet fellow  looking  over  my— 


M 


In  Bohemia 

"Rag.  It's  not  true,  I  swear.  (For  Miss 
Clara.)" 

Another  time  he  wants  me  to  send  him  some 
brushes  and  various  other  painting  materials  he 


DU   MAURIER   AT  WORK   AGAIN. 


enumerates  :  "  Oh,  and  a  little  thing  like  this  for 
oil  to  do  the  thing  cheesy."  He  depicts  himself 
quite  elated ;  his  eyes  seemed  so  much  better 
that  he  had  once  more  resumed  work  in  the 

90 


with  du  Maurier. 

studio  of  his  friend  Goyers.  "  Gruss  from 
maternal  and  self,"  he  ends;  "ganz  hertzlich  ; 
come  soon,  or  write  soon,  or  do  something  soon, 
hang  it. — Thy  RAG,  jusqu'  a  la  mort." 

Monsieur  Staps,   Sous-Chef  of  the  "  Guides, 
the  best  military  band  in  Brussels,  was  a  friend  of 


-  J 


"  CLAUDIUS   FELIX   ET   PUBLIUS  BUSSO,   CUM   CENTURIOXE   GUIDORUM, 
AUDIEXTES  JUVENES  CONSERVATORIONI." 


ours.  He  had  invited  us  to  one  of  the  famous 
Concerts  du  Conservatoire,  a  treat  in  anticipation 
of  which  du  Maurier  at  once  takes  to  the  pen, 
and  shows  us  in  classical  garments  and  dignified 
attitudes  listening  to  the  "  young  men  of  the 
Conservatorio."  "  Sketch  represents,"  he  says, 

91 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Maurier. 

"  Claudius  Felix  et  Publius  Busso,  cum  centurione 
Guidorum,  audientes  juvenes  Conservatorioni, 
A.D.  CCLVIII."  The  "  Busso"  derived  from  his 
full  name — George  Louis  Palmella  Busson  du 
Maurier. 

In  striking  contrast  with  the  last  drawing  is 
the  next.  Here  we  are  decidedly  anything 
but  conventional  in  our  attire,  as  he  depicts 
us  in  "  Double-bedded  room,  Brussels.  Time 
ii  a.m.  (train  starts  11.20).  Bobtail's  face 
being  rather  smutty,  he  washes  it,  and  Rag's 
boots  being  rather  tight,  he  puts  them  on  at 
leisure,  during  which  process  he  has  time  to 
smoke  three  pipes.  Bobtail.  Bub-bub-bub- 
bub  .  .  .  whew  .  .  .  pouf!  .  .  .  Rag.  How 
many  ?  " 

A  favourite  theme  of  his  was  his  supposed 
inability  to  shine  on  occasions  when  I  had  intro- 
duced him  to  friends  of  mine,  and  was  particu- 
larly anxious  to  show  him  off  to  advantage,  and 
then,  again,  the  unrelenting  fate  that  would 
swiftly  overtake  him  if  he  ventured  to  put  him- 
self forward.  I  need  not  say  that  the  inability 
and  the  discomfiture  existed  only  in  his  imagina- 
tion, for  in  all  circles  he  was  ever  appreciated 
and  admired.  But  he  would  have  it  other- 

92 


In  Bohemia  with  dit  Maurier. 
wise,    and   pourtrays    us    side    by  side   with    the 


legend — 


"  The  height  of  enjoyment. 

Rag  thinking  of  his  eyes,  in  a  pair  of  tight  boots,  with 
Bobtail  whispering  :  '  Say  something  clever,  you  stupid 
muff  ! ' » 


Another  drawing  shows  what  happened  when 
for  once   in  a  way  he  presumed    to   accept  the 


homages  of  the  fair. 


95 


In  Bohemia 

"One  fine  morninge,  earlie,  at  ye  Cafe  de  la 
Plage,  Blankenberghe,  ye  celebrated  Rag,  deem- 
ing himself  alone,  treateth  himself  to  a  private 
performance  of  ye  Padre  furioso  e  figlia  infelice, 
in  imitatione  of  his  illustrious  friende,  Felix  Bob- 
tailo.  Presentlie  a  voice  exclaimeth  behind  him, 
'  Monsieur,  permettez  moi  de  vous  feliciter,'  and 
a  ladie  politelie  maketh  him  complimente  on  his 
talente.  Rag  replieth  that  she  must  not  be  sur- 
prised thereat,  as  hys  life  has  been  spent  among 
ye  great  musicians,  and  that  therefore  he  can 
scarcelie  helpe  being  a  consummate  musician 
himselfe.  Shortly  after  as  he  lighteth  hys  cigarre 
at  ye  barre,  he  enquireth  bumptiously,  '  Who 
might  that  good  ladie  be  ? '  '  She  is  the  prima- 
donna  of  the  Munich  Opera,  Monsieur.'  Where- 
upon ye  soul  of  ye  humiliated  Rag  sinketh  into 
hys  bootes,  and  he  retireth  for  ever  under  a 
perpetual  extinguisher. 

"Ye  hero  of  ye  above  unfortunate  adventure 
presenteth  hys  compliments  to  Miss  Clara 
Moscheles,  and  beggeth  she  will  deigne  to 
accepte  ye  sketche  in  acknowledgment  of  ye 
last  box  of  '  acidulated  lemon-flavoured  droppes  ' 
entrusted  to  her  brother's  care  (need  he  remark 
that  they  have  not  yet  reached  their  destination). 

96 


with,  du  Maurier. 

"  Miss  Clara  is  invited  to  observe  how  cun- 
ninglie  ye  profile  of  Rag  is  made  to  imitate  that 
of  her  talented  brother." 

Du  Maurier's  stay  in  Blankenberghe  was  but 
short.  He  soon  went  to  Diisseldorf  to  put  him- 


YE   CELEBRATED    RAG  TREATETH    HIMSELF  TO  A  PRIVATE  PERFORMANCE 
OF  YE   PADRE   FURIOSO   E   FIGLIA   IXFELICE. 

self  under  the  treatment  of  a  famous  oculist, 
Hofrath  de  Leeuwe,  who  resided  not  far  from 
there  at  Grafrath.  He  wrote,  in  high  spirits : 
"  Spent  yesterday  in  Grafrath  ;  jolly  place,  lots 
of  beauties,  plenty  of  singing  and  sketching  and 
that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  Long  walks  in 

97  N 


In  Bohemia 

beautiful  valleys,  most  delightful.  The  fact  is, 
I'm  so  beastly  merry  since  I've  been  here  that 
I  don't  think  I'm  quite  sane,  and  altogether  only 
want  your  periodical  visits  and  permission  to 
have  my  fling  on  Saturday  nights  to  be  in 
heaven.  Doctor  says  he'll  do  me  good  ;  have 
to  go  to  Grafrath  once  a  week.  Qa  me  bote 
joliment.  Good-bye,  my  old.  Thine  ever 


He  had  met  some  old  acquaintances  and  frater- 
nised with  some  English  and  American  artists, 
had  got  into  the  swim  of  Grafrath  society,  such 
as  it  was,  and  was  soon  placed  on  a  pedestal, 
whilst  sundry  beauties  sat  at  his  feet  and,  to  the 
best  of  my  belief,  sighed.  "  They  all  want  me 
to  make  etchings  of  the  little  can-cans  and  lick- 
spittlings  going  on  here.  Splendid  study  ;  shall 

98 


witk  du  Maurier. 

think  about  it.  Carry  novel,  of  course,  adjourned 
sine  die ;  haven't  got  time  just  now — you  know 
what  a  fellow  I  am.  Just  got  her  letter  ;  very 
naive  and  amusing — but  don't  tell  her  so,  or  else 
she  will  pose  for  that  and  spoil  it.  Here  is  a 


AT  THE  HOFRATH'S  DOOR. 

"  SHE.    REALLY  I  DON'T  SEE  THE  SLIGHTEST  MOTE  IN  YOUR  EYES." 
"  HE.    NO,  BUT  I  CAN  SEE  THE  BEAMS  IN  YOURS." 

little  drawing  for  you.     Do  all  honour  to  it,  since 
it  has  met  with  a  little  ovation  here." 

He  calls  it  "a  new  adaptation  from  the  New 
Testament."  He  and  a  charming  "she"  sit 
waiting  their  turn  at  the  Hofrath's  door.  He  is 

99 


In  Bohemia 

looking  into  her  eyes  and  she  into  his.  "  Really 
I  don't  see  the  slightest  mote  in  your  eyes,"  says 
she.  "  No,  but  I  can  see  the  beams  in  yours," 
he  replies. 


"  I  SAY,   GOVERNOR,   MIND  YOU   DON'T  GASH   HIS  THROAT  AS  YOU   DID 
THAT   POOR   OLD   SPANIARD'S  !  " 

Did  du  Maurier  ever  attempt  to  shave  any- 
body, I  wonder  ?  According  to  one  of  the 
sketches  he  sent  me  from  Dlisseldorf  he  did, 
and  was  so  engaged  on  a  blind  man  Kennedy, 

100 


with  du  Maurier. 

when  a  Captain  Marius  comes  on  the  scene  and 
says,  in  discreet  whisper  and  with  much  con- 
cern, "  I  say,  governor,  mind  you  don't  gash  his 
throat  as  you  did  that  poor  old  Spaniard's !  (Out 
loud]  How  d'ye  do,  Kennedy  ?  " 

The    same    Mr.    Kennedy   figures  once  more, 


MR.  KENNEDY,  WHO  IS  QUITE  BUND,  DISCREETLY  INFORMS  THE  PRO- 
FESSOR THAT  CAPTAIN  MARIUS  BLUEBLAST  "IS  NA  BUT  A  SINFU* 
BLACKGUARD." 

when,  unaware  of  the  presence  of  the  captain, 
he  discreetly  informs  the  professor  that  Captain 
Marius  Blueblast  "  is  na'  but  a  sinfu'  blackguard." 
A  portrait  he  drew  of  the  doctor  was  a  great 
success.  "  I  have  done  the  old  cock's  portrait 

101 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Maurier. 

stunningly,"  he  says;  "nine  crosses  of  the  Legion 
of  Honour,  &c.  Not  a  sou  into  my  pocket ;  all 
for  poor-box.  Fancy  a  fellow  like  me  making 
presents  to  the  poor-box  (vide  sketch)  !  But  as 


the  portrait  will  be  very  much  spilt  about 
(rtyandu],  I  may  fish  a  stray  order  or  two.  I 
have  followed  your  advice  for  a  whole  week 
and  done  a  magnificent  Framboisy.  Shall  not 
attempt  to  go  on  until  you  are  here  to  give  me 
another  stirring-up.  Am  going  to  Antwerp  next 
week  (always  am).  Shall  you  be  moving  too  ? 
Journey  together — great  fun.  Take  care  of  my 


102 


SCENE  FROM  MACPHERSOX'S  OSSIAX  : — 


"  Dark  was  the  sun  !  Heavy  the  clouds  on  the  cliffs  of  Oithona — 
when  the  fair-headed  son  of  the  Maurialva  crossed  his  claymore  with 
the  stern  dark-browed  Bobthailva  and  swore  friendship  on  the  names 
of  Carry  and  Damask." 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Maurier. 

purse  and  passport,  and  see  my  trunks  are 
locked." 

I  was  moving,  and  as  du  Maurier  kept  on 
being  about  to  go  to  Antwerp,  I  went  to  pay  him 
a  flying  visit  at  Dusseldorf  on  my  way  to  Paris. 
We  sat  into  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  (as 
he  depicts  us),  talking  of  the  past,  present,  and 
future,  a  long-necked  Rhine-wine  bottle  and  two 
green  glasses  beside  us,  our  hopes  and  aspirations 
rising  with  the  cloud  that  curled  from  my  ever- 
glowing  cigar.  We  talked  till  his  fertile  imagina- 
tion took  us  across  the  sea,  and  "  Ragmar  of  the 
Maurialva  and  Bobthailva,  the  son  of  Moscheles, 
swore  eternal  amity  on  their  native  heath." 

Damask  was  another  beauty  whom  we  appre- 
ciated, perhaps  all  the  more  because  we  knew  she 
was  dying  of  consumption. 

In  Paris  I  was  probably  absorbed  in  some 
work  I  had  in  hand  and  must  have  neglected  du 
Maurier,  for  he  writes  urging  me  to  answer  by 
return  of  post  and  give  an  account  of  myself.  He 
had  been  visited,  he  says,  by  an  alarming  night- 
mare, which  he  forthwith  sketches  for  my  benefit. 
Carry,  the  Circe,  had  captured  the  lion.  The 
noble  beast — that  was  me — had  succumbed  to  the 

107 


In  Bohemia 


wiles  of  the  enchantress,  and  sub- 
mitted tamely  to  being  combed 
and  brushed  and  to  having  his 
claws  clipped  by  her  hand.  Like 
birds  of  a  feather,  so  do  lions  of 
a  name,  flock  together.  And  so 
another  noble  beast — that  was  he 
—is  seen  approaching,  presumably 
to  claim  his  share  of  the  combing 
and  clipping  and  of  whatever  other  favours  may 
be  forthcoming. 

Another  time  when,  I  suppose,  I  was  again 
letting  him  wait  for  an  answer,  he  writes  from 
Dusseldorf  :  "  DEAR  BOBTAIL, — Est-ce  que  tu 
te  donnes  le  genre  de  m'oublier  par  hazard  ?  I 

1 08 


with  du  Maurier. 


have  been  expecting 
a  letter  from  you 
every  day,  running 
thus  :  '  DEAR  RAG, 
—  Come  to  Paris 
immediately,  to  illus- 
trate thirty-six  peri- 
odical papers  which 
I  have  got  for  you. 
In  haste,  Bobtail.' 
My  old  pal,  Tom 


Armstrong,  is  here,  working 
hard ;  eyes  the  same  as  ever. 
Write  soon  and  tell  all  about 
that    portrait.       Diisseldorf 
rencontre  was  jolly."     The     | 
letter  is  headed  by 
a    drawing     repre- 
senting   me     soar- 
ing    heavenwards, 
whilst   he,   chained 
to  the  spot,  is  philo- 
sophically   consult- 
ing the  cards  on  his 
prospects  of  release. 

109 


In  Bohemia 


Then   comes  a  postscript :  "  Going  in  for  this 
sort  of  thino"." 


"  Will  you  come  old  fellow  and  be 


I  suppose  I  answered  saying  that  I  only  put 
off  writing  till  I  had  mustered  the  full  complement 
of  periodicals.  If  I  was  in  a  prophetic  mood  I 
may  have  added  that  it  was  all  right,  and  that 
very  shortly  thirty-six  editors  would  be  clamour- 
ing for  his  work,  and  perhaps  thirty-six  States 
hallooing  for  him  to  come  over  immediately. 


no 


with  du  Maurier. 

Hoping  to  be  punch'd  at  an  early  date,  I  probably 
remained  his,  &c.,  &c. 

The  early  date  came,  for,  before  his  final  return 
to  England,  we  met  once  more  in  Antwerp  and 
Malines.  And  that  takes  me  back  to  Carry. 
She  was  changed  to  her  advantage,  so,  at  least, 
the  world  of  Malines  thought.  We  were  not 
quite  so  sure  that  the  change  would  prove 
altogether  to  her  advantage.  She  had  been  quite 
pretty  enough  before,  and  we  thought  she  could 
well  have  done  without  developing  further 
physical  attractions.  She  had  always  known  how 
to  use  her  eyes,  not  unfrequently  shedding  their 
beneficent  light  on  two  persons  at  the  same  time, 
and  we  considered  that  that  number  should  not 
be  exceeded.  But  now  their  activity  seemed 
daily  increasing,  and  it  was  not  without  concern 
that  we  noticed  in  her  a  certain  restlessness  and 
a  growing  tendency  to  discuss  with  the  serpent 
questions  relating  to  the  acquisition  of  prohibited 
apples.  After  a  while,  and  perhaps  in  conse- 
quence of  the  good  advice  we  gave  her,  she 
sobered  down  and  surprised  us  by  her  docility  ; 
but  at  best  her  moods  were  uncertain  and  she 
puzzled  us  much. 

"  Now,  Bobtail,"  said  Rag,  as  we  walked  along 
in 


In  Bohemia 
the  sober  old  streets  of  Malines,  discussing;  the 

o 

state    of    Carry's    mind   and    heart.        (He    has 


omitted  the  streets,  but  has  put  us  into  our  very 
best  mediseval   suit.)      "  Now,    Bobtail,  what  do 


112 


with  du  Maurier. 

you  think  ?  Is  she  in  love  ?  And  if  so,  with 
whom  ?  " 

"  She  may  be,  or  she  may  be  not,"  said  Bobtail, 
with  oracular  discretion  ;  "  but,  if  she  is,  it  can 
only  be  with  one  of  us.  She  would  not  waste 
her  sentiment  on  a  native  whilst  we  were  within 
reach." 

"  But  which  of  us  is  it?  "  asked  Rag,  somewhat 
alarmed. 

'  I  know  not ;  but  I  hope  neither,"  answered 
the  oracle  thus  appealed  to  ;  "  but  the  state  of  her 
mind,  I  believe,  is  this  :  If  she  were  to  marry 
you,  she  would  fall  in  love  with  me  ;  and  if  she 
were  to  marry  me,  she  would  fall  in  love  with 
you." 

This  dictum  must  have  impressed  du  Maurier, 
for  it  started  him  on  a  series  of  drawings,  with 
accompanying  text  in  illustration  of  it.  There 
were  to  be  two  volumes.  The  first,  in  which  I 
figure  as  the  husband,  was  rapidly  produced  ;  the 
second,  in  which  he  was  to  be  the  husband,  never 
saw  the  light  of  day.  It  was  shelved  sine  die,  a 
proceeding  I  always  thought  particularly  unfair, 
as  he  never  gave  me  a  chance  of  being  loved.  I 
am  compensated,  however,  by  the  possession  of 
the  first  volume  of  the  "  Noces  de  Picciola,"  or 

113  p 


In  Bohemia 

"  Cari-catures,"  as  they  are  called.     On  the  title- 
page  Bobtail  is  made  to  say  :— 


"  If  Carry  were  to  marry  one  of  us, 
I'd  give  thee  any  odds  she  would  be  safe, 
O  Rag,  to  love  the  other " 

(Shakespere.     "  Two  Swells  of  Antwerp.") 

"  Varium  et  mutabile  semper  femina,"  he  adds, 
and  his  story  illustrates  the  truth  of  the  poet's 
words.  His  points  will  be  so  much  better  under- 
stood later  on,  when  some  of  the  problems  con- 
nected with  our  matrimonial  laws  have  been 
solved,  that  it  would  be  a  pity  to  publish  them 
prematurely.  Suffice  it  to  show  how  Felix  and 
Georges  produced  the  portrait  of  Picciola. 
"  Fe"lix  put  all  his  talent  and  Georges  all  his  good 
will  into  it,  for,  once  completed,  Picciola  was  to 
select  a  husband  from  the  two  suitors.  After 
much  cogitation  she  decides  for  Felix,  whilst 
offering  her  friendship  to  Georges,  who  seems 

114 


with  du  Maurier. 

but  moderately  satisfied  with  this  arrangement  ; 
and  then,  when  husband  and  wife  leave  for  distant 
countries,  Georges,  who  cannot  bear  the  thought 
of  being  parted  from  his  dear  Picciola,  enters  the 
service  of  the  young  couple  and  accompanies  them 


\ 


PORTRAIT   OF   PICCIOLA. 


on  their  honeymoon."  This  mythical  journey 
gives  the  author  opportunities  for  the  subtle 
psychological  analysis  of  a  young  lady's  heart, 
strongly  inclined  to  revolt  against  some  of  the  con- 
ventions laid  down  by  Society  for  its  regulation. 


In  Bohemia 

We  had  fondly  hoped  we  might  escort  and 
protect  her  on  the  thorny  path  of  life,  as  perti- 
nently shown  in  the  drawing,1  where  we  are  all 
three  going  along,  our  arms  and  hands  fraternally 


"ON  THEIR   HONEYMOON." 

intertwined  and  linked  together  in  perfect  sym- 
metry, as  if  therewith  to  tie  the  knot  of  friendship 
and  make  it  fast  for  ever  and  a  day. 

But  it  was  not  to  be.     A  big  wave  intervened  to 

1  See  Frontispiece. 
116 


with  du  Maurier. 

separate  us,  and  swept  away  all  traces  of  the  road 
before  us.  Poor  Carry !  Yes,  she  had  a  story. 
Sad.  Bright.  Then  sad  again.  First  she  gave 
to  Amor  what  was  Amor's,  and  then  to  Hymen 
what  was  Hymen's.  She  tasted  of  the  apple  her 
friend  the  serpent  had  told  her  so  much  about. 
Then — "  la  femme  a  une  chute  est  rare  comme 
le  Niagara" — and  there  are  more  apples  than  one 
in  the  Garden  of  Eden — she  tried  another;  such 
a  bad  one  unfortunately.  It  was  a  wonder  it 
didn't  poison  her,  body  and  soul,  but  it  didn't. 
There  was  a  moment  when  the  Angel  with  the 
flaming  sword  threatened  to  cast  her  adrift,  and 
it  would  have  fared  badly  with  her  had  not  a 
helping  hand  come  to  save  her.  But  sound  as 
she  was  at  the  core,  and  true,  she  rallied  and 
rose  again  to  new  life  and  unhoped-for  happiness. 
It  was  a  young  doctor  who  came  to  the  rescue  ; 
a  mere  boy  he  seemed  to  look  at ;  but  a  man  he 
was  in  deed  and  word.  He  worked  hard  and 
walked  fast ;  he  defied  convention  and  challenged 
fate.  With  a  stout  heart  he  laboured  to  raise 
Carry  to  the  level  of  his  affections,  and  with  a 
strong  hand  he  tightened  his  hold  upon  her. 
He  loved  her  passionately,  devotedly,  and  she, 
clinging  to  him  as  to  the  instrument  of  her 

117 


In  Bohemia 

salvation,  gradually  regained  her  better  self,  and, 
slowly  but  surely,  learnt  to  find  in  her  own  heart 
the  greatest  of  treasures  that  woman  can  bestow 
upon  man.  But  he  was  a  Southerner  of  the 
French  meridional  type,  excitable  and  impulsive, 
and,  so,  alas  !  he  was  jealous  of  Carry's  northern 
friends  and  snapped  the  thread  asunder  that 
bound  her  to  them.  We  only  knew,  and  that  we 
learnt  in  a  roundabout  way,  that  she  was  the 
happiest  little  wife  in  Paris.  Once,  and  only 
once,  she  wrote  to  us,  to  tell  us  how  complete  was 
her  happiness.  A  crowning  glory  had  come  ;  a 
little  glory  to  nurse  and  fondle,  to  cry  over- 
tears  of  joy  ;  to  smile  to — the  prettiest,  foolishest 
of  mother's  smiles  ;  to  pray  for  and  to  worship 
from  the  bottom  of  her  little  blossoming  soul.  It 
was  not  till  three  years  later  that  I  was  in  Paris 
and  succeeded  in  picking  up  the  thread  of  Carry's 
story.  Hale  and  hearty,  overflowing  with  health 
and  happiness,  the  young  doctor  had  gone  to  his 
work  at  the  hospital.  He  came  home  blood- 
poisoned,  to  die  in  his  wife's  arms.  It  was  a 
case  of  self-sacrifice  in  the  cause  of  science,  of 
heroic  devotion  to  a  fellow-creature.  And  the 
young  widow  was  left  alone  again,  with  none  to 
weep  over  (tears  of  anguish  this  time)  but  the 

118 


with  du  Maurier. 


little  glory,  who,  poor  thing,  could  only  wonder, 
but  not  soothe.  What  can  have  become  of 
Carry  once  more  cast  adrift  in  Paris  to  fight  the 
battle  of  life  in  this  hard  ever  love-making  world  ? 

We  never  knew. 

Back  to  England.    The  time  had  come  when — 

•'  Who  was  to  be  lucky  and  who  to  be  rich, 
Who'd  get  to  the  top  of  the  tree  ; 
Was  a  mystery  which 
Dame  Fortune,  the  witch, 
Was  to  tell  du  Maurier  and  me." 

What  with  the  boxing- 
gloves  and  one  thing  and 
another,  he  had  been  "get- 
ting English  again  by 
degrees."  In  a  drawing 
he  shows  us  how  he  is 
going  through  the  process 
arm-in-arm  with  his  old 
friend,  Tom  Armstrong, 
now  the  Art-Director  of 
that  very  English  insti- 
tution, the  South  Ken- 
sington Museum.  Armstrong  and  T.  R. 
Lamont,  the  man  who  to  this  day  bears  such 
a  striking  resemblance  to  our  friend  the  Laird, 

119 


In  Bohemia 

had  presented  du  Maurier  with  a  complete  edition 
of  Edgar  Allan  Poe's  works.  His  appreciation 
of  that  author  is  expressed  in  a  letter  which  he 
addressed  to  Armstrong,  and  it  needs  not  much 
reading  between  the  lines  to  gather  what  was 
the  literary  diet  best  suited  to  his  taste.  It  is 
amusing,  too,  to  notice  the  little  shadows  cast 
here  and  there  by  coming  events. 

(Billy  Barlow  was,  I  really  don't  know  why,  for 
the  time  being,  synonymous  with  George  du 
Maurier.) 

"  Gulielmus  Barlow,  Thomasino  Armstrong, 
Whom  we  hope  is  '  gaillarclement '  getting  along 
And  salubrious,  ave  ! 

You'll  wonder,  I  ween, 

At  Barlow's  turning  topsy-tur — poet  I  mean. 
I  take  odds  you'll  exclaim,  'twixt  a  grunt  and  a  stare, 
'  Gottferdummi '  the  beggar's  gone  mad,  I  declare, 
And  his  wits  must  have  followed  his  '  peeper ' — not  so  ; 
He  will  give  you  the  wherefore,  will  William  Barlow — 
Viz  :  he's  so  seedy  and  blue,  he's  so  deucedly  triste, 

He's  so  d d  out  of  sorts,  he's  so  d d  out  of  tune, 

That  for  mere  consolation  he  cannot  resist 
The  temptation  of  holding  with  Tommy  commune. 
Then  that  he  should  be  bothered  alone,  isn't  fair, 
So  he'll  just  bother  you  a  bit,  pour  se  distraire, 
This  will  partly  account  for  the  milk — then  the  fact  is 
That  some  heavy  swell  says  that  it's  deuced  good  practice, 
And  then  it's  a  natural  consequence,  too, 
Of  the  classical  culture  he's  just  been  put  through. 

120 


with  du  Maurier. 

I'll  explain  :  T'other  day  the  maternal  did  say, 

'  You  are  sadly  deficient  in  reading,  Bill  ;  nay 

Do  not  wrinkle  your  forehead  and  turn  up  your  nose 

(That  elegant  feature  of  William  Barlow's  !) 

You've  read  Thackeray,  Dickens,  I  know  ;  but  it's  fit 

You  should  study  the  classical  authors  a  bit. 

Heaven  knows  when  your  sight  will  be  valid  again, 

You  may  throw  down  the  pencil  and  take  up  the  pen, 

And  you  cannot  have  too  many  strings  to  your  bow.' 

— '  A-a-amen  ! '  says  young  William  to  Mrs.  Barlow. 

So  we're  treated  (our  feelings  we  needn't  define) 

To  a  beastly  slow  book  called  the  '  Fall  and  Decline  ' 

By  a  fellow  called  Gibbon,  be  d d  to  him  ;  then 

Comes  the  '  Esprit  des  lois  et  des  moeurs/  from  the  pen 

Of  a  chap  hight  Voltaire — un  pedant — qui  je  crois 

Ne  se  fichait  pas  mal  et  des  moeurs  et  des  lois. 

After  which  just  to  vary  the  pleasures,  Rousseau 

By  Emile — no  :  Emile  by  Rousseau  ?    Gad  !  I  know 

That  which  ever  it  be  it's  infernally  slow, 

And  I'm  glad  Billy's  neither  Emile  nor  Rousseau — 

Such  my  fate  is  to  listen  to.  longing  to  slope — 

Then  come  horrid  long  epics  of  Dryden  and  Pope, 

Which  I  mentally  swear  a  big  oath  I'll  confine 

To  the  tombs  of  the  Capulets,  every  line — i 

Not  but  what  the  old  beggars  may  do  in  their  way, 

Gad  !     Uncommonly  fine  soporifics  are  they  ; 

But  they  seem  after  Tennyson,  Shelley,  and  Poe 

Just  a  trifle  too  Rosy  for  Billy  Barlow — 

Oh,  dear  Raggedy,  oh  ! 

Ulalume  and  ^Enone  for  William  Barlow. 

Erst,  they're  short.  Then  they  breathe  in  their  mystical  tone 

An  essence,  a  spirit,  a  draught  which  alone 

Can  content  Billy's  lust,  for  the  weird  and  unknown 

121  Q 


In  Bohemia 

(Billy's  out  of  his  depth)  they've  an  undefined  sense 

Of  the  infinite  'mersed  in  their  sorrow  intense 

(Billy's  sinking  !     A  rope  !  Some  one  quick  !     Damn  it ! 

hence 

That  mystical  feeling  so  sweetly  profound 
Which  weaves  round  the  senses  a  spell  (Billy's  drowned) 
(Here  run  for  the  drags  of  the  Royal  Humane  !) 
A  mystical  feeling,  half  rapture,  half  pain, 
Such  as  moves  in  sweet  melodies,  such  as  entrances 
In  Chopin's  '  Etudes,'  and  in  Schubert's  '  Romances.' 

Ah  !  Chopin's  '  Impromptu  '  !  Schubert's  '  Serenade '  ! 

Have  you  ever  heard  these  pretty  decently  played  ? 

If  you  haven't,  old  fellow,  I'll  merely  observe 

That  a  treat  most  delicious  you  have  in  reserve. 

Lord  !      How  Billy's  soul  grazes  in  diggins  of  clover, 

While  Stefani  rapidly  fingers  them  over, 

Feelingly,  fervidly  fingers  them  over. 

Illusion  that  enervates  !     Feverish  dream 

Of  excitement  magnetic,  inspired,  supreme, 

Or  despairing  dejection,  alternate,  extreme  ! 

Gad  !     These  opium-benumbing  performances  seem, 

In  their  sad  wild  unresting  irregular  flow 

Just  expressly  concocted  for  William  Barlow. 

Oh  !  dear  Raggedy,  oh  ! 

Why,  they  ravish  the  heart,  sir,  of  Billy  Barlow." 

Du  Maurier's  stay  on  the  Continent  had  come 
to  a  close  some  time  before  mine,  and  to  that 
circumstance  I  owe  several  letters  in  which  he 
speaks  of  his  first  experiences  in  London.  He 
revelled  in  the  metamorphosis  he  was  going 

122 


with  du  Maurier. 

through,  and  illustrated  the  past  and  the  present 
for  my  better  comprehension.  There  on  one  side 
of  the  Channel  he  shows  the  dejected  old  lion  of 
Malines  gnawing  his  tobaccoless  clay  pipe,  and 
then  on  the  other  the  noble  beast  stalking  along 


jauntily  with  tail  erect  and  havannah  alight, 
wrote  in  high  spirits  :— 


He 


"  DEAR  BOBTAIL, — I  need  not  tell  you  how 
very  jolly  it  was  to  get  your  letter  and  to  hear 
good  news  of  you.  My  reason  for  not  writing 
was  that  I  intended  to  make  my  position  before 
giving  of  my  news  to  anybody.  I  was  just  funky 
and  blue  about  it  at  first,  but  fortunately  I  was 
twigged  almost  immediately,  and,  barring  my 
blessed  idleness,  am  getting  on  splendaciously 
just  now.  Lots  of  my  things  have  been  out. 
I'm  going  in  for  becoming  a  swell. 

"  How  strange  to  think  of  such  a  change.  I'm 
123 


In  Bohemia 

leading  the  merriest  of  lives,  and  only  hope  it  will 
last.  Living  with  Henley,  No.  85,  Newman 
Street ;  very  jolly  and  comfortable.  Chumming 
with  all  the  old  Paris  fellows  again,  all  of  them 
going  ahead.  There's  Whistler  is  already  one 
of  the  great  celebrities  here — Poynter  getting  on. 
This  is  a  very  jolly  little  village,  and  I  wish  you 
were  over  here.  They  do  make  such  a  fuss  with 
an  agreeable  fellow  like  you  or  me,  for  instance. 
But  I  suppose  Paris  is  just  as  jolly  in  its  way. 
My  ideas  of  Paris  are  all  Boheme,  quartier  latin, 
&c.,  et  si  c'etait  a  recommencer,  ma  foi  je  crois 
que  je  dirais  'zut.'  This  is  a  hurried  and  absurd 
letter  to  write  to  an  old  pal  like  you,  but  I  hardly 
ever  have  time  for  a  line — out  late  every  night 
and  make  use  of  what  little  daylight  there  is  in 
Newman  Street  to  draw.  '  S'il  faisait  au  moins 
clair  de  Lune  pendant  le  jour  dans  ce  sacre  pays  ' 
I  daresay  I  shall  treat  myself  to  a  trip  over  to 
Paris  as  soon  as  the  weather  is  jollier.  I  intend 
to  go  abroad  this  summer  to  do  some  etchings  'qui 
seront  aux  pommes.'  Is  there  any  chance  what- 
ever of  your  coming  over  here  before  ?  You 
mustn't  form  your  opinion  of  my  performances 
by  what  you  may  happen  to  see,  as  half  of  what  I 
do  is  spoiled  by  bad  engraving  (that's  why  I  intend 

124 


with  du  Maurier. 

to  etch),  and  what  I  have  done,  bar  one  or  two 
things,  are  merely  little  chic  sketches  for  money. 
I  have  many  plans ;  among  others  I  intend  to 
bring  out  a  series  in  Punch,  with  which  I  shall 
take  peculiar  care — something  quite  original.  I 
think  you  would  precious  soon  get  more  portraits 
than  you  could  paint  here,  but  if  you  are  getting 
on  so  well  in  Paris,  of  course  it  would  be  madness 
to  leave.  But  I  do  not  like  the  idea  of  your  not 
being  one  of  us — such  a  band  of  brothers  full  of 
jolly  faults  that  dovetail  beautifully.  It  was  quite 
a  freak  of  mine  coming  over  here;  I  did  it  against 
everybody's  advice — came  over  with  a  ten-pound 
note  and  made  the  rest.  '  Your  friend  Bobtail 
seems  to  be  the  only  man  who  had  no  doubt  of 
your  talent,'  writes  my  mother.  '  Enfin  c'est 
prouve  que  je  suis  au  moins  bon  a  quelque  chose.' 
Do  you  go  much  into  the  world  ?  I  go  knocking 
about  as  happily  as  possible,  singing  and  smoking 
cigars  everywhere.  Jimmy  Whistler  and  I  go 
'  tumbling '  together,  as  Thackeray  says.  Would 
you  were  here  to  tumble  with  us !  Enfin,  mon 
bon,  ecris  moi  vite." 

When  at  last  I  too  returned  to  London  I  was 
privileged  to  take  my  humble  share  in  the 
"  tumbling,"  as  also  in  the  steady  process  that 

125 


In  Bohemia. 

was  gradually  to  wean  us  from  Bohemia.  We 
tumbled  pretty  regularly  into  the  Pamphilon,  a 
restaurant  within  a  stone's  throw  of  Oxford 
Circus,  of  the  familiar  type  that  exhibits  outside 
its  door  a  bill  of  fare  with  prices  appended,  to  be 
studied  by  those  who  count  their  shillings  and 
pence  as  we  did.  We  had  got  beyond  the  days 
when  no  wines  are  sour  and  when  tough  meat 
passes  muster,  if  there  is  only  plenty  of  it ;  we 
wanted  a  sound  dinner,  and  we  got  it  at  the 
Pamphilon ;  to  wind  up  we  adjourned  to  the 
coffee-room  and  talked  and  read  and  smoked. 

Stacey  Marks,  Poynter,  Jimmy  Whistler,  and 
Charles  Keene  were  among  the  crew,  and  others 
not  so  well  known  to  fame.  Pleasant  hours  those 
and  gemlithliche,  as  the  Germans  say  ;  how  diffe- 
rent the  after-dinner  clay  pipe  or  cheap  weed  of 
those  times  to  the  post-prandial  havannah  we 
now  complacently  whiff  at  our  friend's  Maecenas' 
hospitable  table !  Yes,  things  have  changed,  my 
dear  Rag,  since  the  day  we  were  paying  our  bill, 
and  you  addressed  the  waiter  with  superb  affa- 
bility :  "  Here,  Charles,  is  a  penny  for  you.  I 
know  it  isn't  much,  but  I  can't  afford  more." 

It  is  hard  to  fancy  anything  less  like  Bohemia 
than  Regent  Street,  but  a  little  incident  that 

126 


with  du  Maurier. 

occurred  as  I  walked  down  that  busy  thorough- 
fare one  afternoon  recalls  the  best  traditions  of 
the  land  in  which  practical  jokes  abound.  I  was 
going  along  without  any  definite  aim,  killing  time 
and  gathering  wool,  flaneing,  in  fact  ;  perhaps 
there  was  a  touch  of  the  foreigner  about  me,  for 
I  had  only  lately  returned  from  abroad;  anyway  I 
suddenly  found  myself  singled  out  as  a  fit  subject 
to  be  victimised.  I  felt  a  hand  stealthily  sliding 
into  my  pocket ;  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  I 
grasped  that  hand  in  as  much  of  an  iron  grip  as 
I  could  muster.  Then — I  hardly  know  why — I 
waited  quite  a  number  of  seconds  before  I  turned 
round.  When  I  did,  it  was  du  Maurier's  face  that 
I  beheld,  blanched  with  terror.  Those  seconds 
had  been  ages  to  him.  Good  heavens  !  had  he 
made  a  mistake  ?  Was  it  not  Bobtail's  but 
another  man's  hand  that  was  clutching  his  wrist  ? 
Thank  Heaven,  it  was  Bobtail's  ! 

There  never  was  an  occasion,  before  or  after, 
I  feel  absolutely  sure,  when  du  Maurier  was  more 
truly  glad  to  see  me.  His  colour  rapidly  returned, 
and  he  swore  that  of  all  the  bonnes  blagues  this 
was  the  best ;  but  for  all  that,  one  thing  is  certain 
—he  has  never  since  attempted  to  pick  pockets 
in  Regent  Street. 

127 


In  Bohemia 

A  delightful  compromise  between  Bohemia 
and  the  land  where  well-regulated  Society  rules 
supreme,  was  the  ground  on  which  stood  Moray 
Lodge,  the  residence  of  Arthur  Lewis,  the  head 
of  the  well-known  firm  of  Lewis  and  Allenby. 

\Ye  have  read  of  him  before  : — 

"  Sir  Lewis  Cornelys,  as  everybody  knows, 
lives  in  a  palace  on  Campden  Hill,  a  house  of 
many  windows,  and,  whichever  window  he  looks 
out  of,  he  sees  his  own  garden  and  very  little 
else.  There  was  no  pleasanter  or  more  festive 
house  than  his  in  London,  winter  or  summer." 

I  quote  this,  as  probably  it  may  not  be  known 
to  everybody  that  Sir  Lewis  was  knighted  on 
the  memorable  occasion  of  Trilby's  birthday, 
when  she  was  presented  at  the  drawing — and 
every  other — room.  With  much  kindly  fore- 
thought his  friend  and  biographer  allows  him  to 
be  eighty  years  old  in  the  early  sixties,  thereby 
enabling  him  to  have  attained  to-day  the  ripe  old 
age  of  one  hundred  and  fourteen. 

Well,  he  was  one  of  du  Maurier's  earliest 
friends,  and  when  Taffy  the  Laird,  and  Little 
Billie,  "a-smokin'  their  pipes  and  cigyars,"  told 
the  cabby  to  drive  to  Mechelen  Lodge,  I  found 
my  way  to  what  I  called  Moray  Lodge,  and  met 

128 


with  du  Maurier. 

them  there.  And  there  too,  to  be  sure,  was 
Glorioli,  "  the  tall,  good-looking  swarthy  foreigner 
from  whose  scarcely  parted,  moist,  thick,  bearded 
lips  issued  the  most  ravishing  sounds  that  had 
ever  been  heard  from  throat  of  man  or  woman 
or  boy." 

As  we  now  empty  one  or  the  other  of  the 
million  bottles  that  are  about,  marked  "  De 
Soria,  Bordeaux,"  we  often  think  with  gratitude 
of  the  great  wine-grower  and  still  greater  singer, 
so  correctly  described  as  "  singing  best  for  love 
or  glory  in  the  studios  of  his  friends." 

To  return  to  Arthur  Lewis  :— 

He  occupied  an  exceptional  position,  inasmuch 
as  he  had  made  his  house  a  centre  towards  which 
intellectual  London  gravitated.  When  he  had 
done  this,  that,  and  the  other  to  make  his 
bachelor  days  memorable  to  a  host  of  friends, 
he  wound  up  by  marrying  one  of  England's 
fairest  women,  our  great  actress,  Kate  Terry. 
It  was  in  those  early  days  that  Ellen,  the 
debutante,  was  introduced  to  the  dramatic  world 
as  "  Kate  Terry's  sister."  Since  then  Kate, 
having  elected  to  rest  on  her  laurels,  is  proud 
to  be  referred  to  by  the  younger  generation  as 
"  Ellen  Terry's  sister." 

129  R 


In  Bohemia 

In  early  life  Lewis  had  various  roads  open  to 
him.  Born,  as  he  was,  with  the  capacity  of  a 
man  of  business,  the  means  and  opportunities  of 
a  man  of  leisure,  and  the  talents  of  an  artist,  he 
managed  to  follow  the  three  roads  at  the  same 
time,  and  they  all  led  to  well-deserved  success. 
He  was  to  be  found  at  his  desk  in  Regent  Street, 
at  his  easel  in  the  studio,  or  on  the  threshold  of 
that  big  billiard  and  reception  room  which  he  had 
built  to  entertain  his  friends.  Himself  an  artist, 
and  for  many  years  a  regular  exhibitor  at  the 
Royal  Academy,  he  was  on  terms  of  close  friend- 
ship with  the  men  who  had  made  their  mark  in 
the  art-world,  and  with  many  who  were  destined 
to  become  famous.  He  was  a  Maecenas  of  the 
right  sort,  knowing  a  good  thing  when  he  came 
across  it,  and  frequently  acquiring  it  before  the 
sleepy  wrorld  awoke  to  its  merits. 

I  well  recollect  the  enthusiasm  with  which  he 
welcomed  the  first  pictures  Joseph  Israels  ex- 
hibited in  England  in  1862.  Neither  in  the 
English  nor  in  the  Dutch  department  of  the 
Exhibition  could  he  ascertain  whether  these  two 
pictures,  "  The  Drowned  Fisherman "  and 
"  Washing  the  Cradle,"  wrere  for  sale.  But  luck 
would  have  it  that  he  was  introduced  to  Israels 

130 


with  du  Maurier. 

at  the  Academy  soirde,  and  the  artist,  assuring 
him  that  the  pictures  were  "  certainly  for  sale," 
Lewis  secured  the  coveted  works,  and  was  thus 
the  first  to  establish  Israels'  fame  in  England. 

The  gatherings  in  Moray  Lodge  were  unique 
in  their  way.  It  was  characteristic  of  the  master 
and  the  house  that  they  made  everybody  feel  at 
home,  from  the  titled  aristocrat  in  the  dress-suit 
to  the  free-and-easy  brother-brush  or  pen,  and 
the  sometimes  out-at-elbow  friend  Bohemian. 

There  was  the  Duke  of  Sutherland,  the  Mar- 
quis of  Lome,  Lord  Dufferin,  Mr.  Frederic 
Leighton,  Associate  of  the  Royal  Academy,  Fred 
Walker,  who  on  several  occasions  designed  the 
cards  of  invitation  for  Lewis,  and  his  namesake, 
the  musician  Fred  Walker,  who  sang  tenor  in  the 
choir,  of  which  more  presently.  There  was  Lord 
Hough  ton,  Charles  Dickens,  Wilkie  Collins,  Ros- 
setti,  Landseer,  Daubigny,  Gustave  Dore,  Arthur 
Sullivan,  Leech,  Keene,  Tenniel,  &c.,  &c.  It  is 
as  hard  to  pass  those  names  over  without  com- 
ment as  it  must  have  been  to  run  the  gauntlet  of 
Scylla  and  Charybdis,  for  every  one  of  them  brings 
back  some  recollection,  and  calls  upon  the  pen  to 
start  a  paragraph  with  an  "  I  well  remember." 

But  that   would    lead    me    away  from    Moray 


In  Bohemia 

Lodge  and  the  famous  Saturday  evenings,  and  I 
never  was,  and  am  not  now,  in  a  hurry  to  get 
away  from  that  hospitable  mansion. 

The  billiard-table  was  boxed  over  on  the  gala 
nights  and  transformed  into  a  buffet.  It  was 
covered  with  bottles  and  glasses,  pipes  and  cigars, 
and  towards  the  close  of  the  evening  with  moun- 
tains of  oysters.  The  amount  we  consumed  on 
one  occasion  was  278  dozen,  as  I  happen  to 
know.  But  the  great  attraction  at  these  gather- 
ings was  the  part-singing  of  the  twenty-five 
"  Moray  Minstrels."  John  Foster  was  the  con- 
ductor, and  led  them  to  such  perfection  that  the 
severest  critic  of  the  day,  dear  old  crabbed 
Henry  F.  Chorley,  proclaimed  them  the  best 
representatives  of  the  English  school  of  glee- 
singing. 

Another  no  less  interesting  feature  was  the 
performance  of  small  theatrical  pieces.  Du 
Maurier  and  Harold  Power  had  given  us  charm- 
ing musical  duologues,  like  "  Les  Deux  Aveu- 
gles,"  by  Offenbach,  and  "  Les  Deux  Gilles," 
with  great  success,  and  that  led  to  further 
developments  and  far-reaching  consequences.  A 
small  party  of  friends  were  dining  with  Lewis. 
"  What  shall  we  get  up  next?  "  was  the  question 

132 


with  du  Maurier. 

raised.  "  Something  new  and  original,"  suggested 
the  host.  "  Now,  Sullivan,  you  should  write  us 
something."  "All  right,"  said  Sullivan,  "but 
how  about  the  words  ?  Where's  the  libretto  ?  " 
"Oh,  I'll  write  that,"  said  Burnand.  And  thus 
those  two  were  started.  "Cox  and  Box,"  a 
travesty  of  "  Box  and  Cox,"  was  read,  re- 
hearsed, and  performed  within  a  fortnight,  at 
Burnand's  house  and  at  Moray  Lodge.  Du 
Maurier  was  "  Box,"  Harold  Power  "  Cox,"  and 
John  Foster  "  Sergeant  Bouncer."  Du  Maurier's 
rendering  of  "  Hush-a-by,  Bacon,"  was  so  sym- 
pathetic and  tender  that  one's  heart  went  out  to 
the  contents  of  the  frying-pan,  wishing  them 
pleasant  dreams. 

Then  there  was  his  famous  duet  with  "  Box," 
reciting  their  marriage  to  one  and  the  same 
lady,  and  the  long  recitative  in  which  the 
printer  describes  his  elaborate  preparations  for 
suicide. 

How  he  solemnly  walked  to  the  cliff  and 
heard  the  seagulls'  mournful  cry — and  looked  all 
around — there  was  nobody  nigh.  Then  (dis- 
posing his  bundle  on  the  brink) — "  Away  to 
the  opposite  side  I  walked."  ("Away"  on  the 
high  A,  that  Sullivan  put  in  on  purpose  for  du 

133 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Maitrier. 

Maurier,  who  possessed  that  chest-note  in  great 
fulness.) 

I  must  skip  a  few  years  and  speak  of  a 
drawing  that  appeared  in  Punch  in  1875,*  and 
which  has  a  special  interest  for  me  ;  it  brings 
back  to  my  mind  a  happy  thought  of  du 
Maurier's,  which  is  closely  connected  with  a 
particularly  happy  thought  of  my  own,  that  took 
root  then  and  has  flourished  ever  since. 

I  must  explain  that  there  was  a  time  when 
had  to  console  myself  with  the  reflection  that 
the  course  of  true  love  never  runs  smooth.  A 
lady  whom  in  my  mind  I  had  selected  as  a 
mother-in-law,  by  no  means  reciprocated  my 
feelings  of  respect  and  goodwill.  But  the  young 
lady,  her  daughter,  fortunately  sided  with  me, 
and  had,  in  fact,  given  her  very  willing  consent 
to  the  change  in  her  mother's  position  which 
I  had  suggested.  I  was  naturally  anxious  to 
assure  that  young  lady  as  frequently  and  as 
emphatically  as  possible  how  much  I  appre- 
ciated her  assistance,  and  how  determined  I 
was  never  to  have  any  other  mother-in-law  but 
the  one  of  my  choice  ;  nor  could  there  be 

1   Published  by  kind  permission   of   the  proprietors  of 
Punch. 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Maurier. 

anything  obscure  in  such  a  declaration,  as 
of  three  sisters  in  the  family  that  particular 
one  was  the  only  unmarried  one.  But  neither 
in  obscure  nor  in  explicit  language  was  I 
allowed  to  approach  her  ;  a  blockade  was  de- 
clared and  rigorously  enforced,  and  we  were 
soon  separated  by  a  distance  of  some  few 
hundred  miles. 

I  can  look  back  complacently  on  the  troubles 
of  those  days  now  that  twenty  years  have  elapsed 
since  I  emerged  victorious  from  the  contest ;  but 
then  the  future  looked  blank  and  bleak,  and  I 
felt  nonplussed  and  down-hearted.  Knowing, 
however,  what  a  faint  heart  is  said  never  to 
win,  I  wras  anxious  to  keep  mine  up  to  the 
mark,  and  with  a  view  to  stimulating  its 
buoyancy  I  went  to  make  a  friendly  call  on 
du  Maurier.  He  would,  I  felt  sure,  be  sym- 
pathetic, and,  whatever  else  might  be  wanting 
in  that  troublesome  eye  of  his,  there  would  be 
a  certain  vivifying  twinkle  in  it  that  could  always 
set  me  up. 

It  was  as  I  expected,  and  I  had  the  full  benefit 
of  the  eye,  and  of  an  ear,  too,  that  he  lent 
willingly  as  I  told  him  how  matters  stood. 

"Well,"  he   said,   "if  you  can't  smuggle  in  a 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Mauricr. 

letter,  let's  smuggle  in  your  portrait.  It  will 
be  rather  a  joke  if  she  comes  across  you  in 
Punch.  I've  just  got  a  subject  in  which  I  can 
use  you." 

To  be  sure,  I  jumped  at  the  idea,  only 
beseeching  him  to  make  me  as  handsome  as 
he  possibly  could,  without  losing  sight  of  the 
main  object,  viz.,  that  the  young  lady  should 
be  able  to  recognise  me.  Her  mother  too,  I 
felt  sure,  would  not  fail  to  be  duly  impressed, 
for  to  ficnire  in  Punch  would  raise  me  in  her 

o 

estimation  as  a  person  of  no  small   importance. 

The  drawing  was  made  and  published,  and 
the  scheme  worked  well ;  coupled,  perhaps,  with 
a  few  millions  of  other  influences,  and  with  the 
assistance  of  the  Fates,  it  achieved  the  desired 
result,  and  before  a  year  had  elapsed  the  original 
drawing  could  be  presented  by  du  Maurier  to 
the  young  lady,  now  become  a  bride,  as  a 
memento  of  bygone  troubles. 

One  more  digression  suggested  by  the  name 
of  Arthur  Sullivan  ;  it  shall  be  the  last.  I  am 
not  going  back  to  the  time  when .  we  were 
boys  together  in  Leipsic,  but  will  only  mention 
him  in  connection  with  Carry  ;  this  time  Carry 
in  another  form. 

138 


-£       l 

/  ''•"^ 


--£ 


In  Bohemia  with  du  Maurier. 

Shortly  after  that  big  wave  intervened  that 
separated  her  from  us  a  happy  chance  put  me 
in  possession  of  a  dog,  the  most  affectionate 
and  lovable  of  Skye  terriers. 

I  named  him  Carry. 

That  dog,  his  qualities  and  virtues,  and  espe- 
cially his  musical  gifts,  deserve  more  than  a 
passing  mention  ;  but,  trusting  that  he,  like  every 
dog,  will  have  his  day,  I  will  here  only  transcribe 
a  letter  of  his  that  he  wrote  with  the  assistance 
of  his  friend,  Arthur  Sullivan,  who,  attracted 
perhaps  by  the  gifts  above  named,  had  kindly 
taken  charge  of  him  during  my  temporary 
absence  on  the  Continent.  Poor  dog!  He  is 
dead  now  ;  so  that  there  can  be  no  indiscretion 
in  publishing  his  bark  and  its  translation.  The 
former  is  best  given  in  its  original  setting.  The 
latter,  purporting  to  be  a  "Translation  of  the 
foregoing  by  A.  S.,"  runs  as  follows  :— 

"  MY  DEAR   AND    ESTEEMED    MASTER, My  kind 

friend,  Mr.  Sullivan,  who  pretends  to  be  as  fond 
of  me  as  you  are,  has  taken  me  away  from  the 
enjoyment  of  a  delicious  mutton  bone,  in  order 
to  answer  your  letter ;  and  as  I  cannot  find  a 
pen  to  suit  me  well,  he  is  writing  whilst  I  dictate. 

141 


In  Bohemia 

I  was  very  low-spirited  the  other  day  after 
leaving  you,  and  appeared  to  feel  the  parting 
very  much,  but  it  soon  wore  off  under  the 
influence  of  biscuit,  bones,  and  kindness  ;  indeed, 
I  must  do  Sully  and  his  family  the  justice  to  say 
that  they  try  to  do  the  utmost  to  make  me  happy 
and  comfortable,  although  they  don't  always 
succeed,  for  sometimes  I  appear  dissatisfied 
(hoping,  entre-nous,  by  that  means  to  get  more 
out  of  them). 

"  I  have  several  idiosyncrasies  and  failings, 
of  which  my  master  (pro  tern.']  is  trying  to 
correct  me,  but  finds  it  rather  hard  work,  for 
I  am  not  so  easily  brought  out  of  them.  I 
have  a  will  of  my  own,  but  Sully  says  :  '  Train 
up  a  dog  in  the  way  it  should  go,  and  he  will 
not  depart,  &c.,  &c.' — and  Sully  is  right. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  is  a  bad  plan  to  wash  me 
with  soap  ?  I  think  it  deters  me  from  licking 
my  skin,  and  consequently  from  having  those 
ideas  of  cleanliness  engendered  within  me  which 
are  so  necessary  to  every  well-bred  dog  moving 
in  good  society ! 

"  I  wrant  to  get  back  to  my  bone,  but  Sully 
says  I  must  first  deliver  a  message  from  him. 
You  are  to  give  his  love  to  your  dear  parents 

142 


with  du  Maurier. 

(in  which  I  heartily  join),  and  tell  them  how 
grieved  he  was  that  he  did  not  see  them  to 
wish  them  '  God  speed  '  before  they  left  England, 
and  how  it  hurt  him  to  think  that  a  long,  long  time 
would  perhaps  elapse  before  he  should  see  them 
again. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  master,  I  must  say  'Good- 
bye.' Much  love  in  few  words,  in  which  Sully 
joins  me. 

"  Believe  me,  ever  your 

"  Attached  and  faithful  dog, 


"  F.  MOSCHELES,  Esq." 

And  now  I  come  to  du  Maurier's  last  letter— 
the  best,  as  I  am  sure  every  right-minded  person 
will  admit.  I  have  kept  it  "  pour  la  bonne 
bouche  "  (excuse  my  quoting  French.  "  Will  me 
not  of  it,"  as  our  neighbours  say  ;  there  are 
unassailable  precedents  for  such  quoting,  you 
know — or  ought  to  know).  The  letter  in  ques- 
tion speaks  of  an  event  so  momentous,  that  of 

H3 


In  Bohemia 


all  events  it  is  the  one  most  worthy  to  "be 
marked  with  a  white,  white  stone  "  ;  and  marked 
it  was,  if  not  with  a  stone,  with  satins  and  laces 
and  a  veil  and  white  orange  blossoms. 

"  Come  and  be  introduced  to  the  future  Mrs. 
Kicky,"  it  said.      "  She   intends  to  celebrate  her 


fr 
WS 

//r '^^ffV 

/f  ^-s~i   -—<<--  I 
//        ^i — ^2>\  /  j          I 

</  A  *     +   L— '\\ 


2ist  birthday  by  a  small  dance.  There  will  be 
friends  and  pretty  girls,  'en  veux  tu,  en  viola.' 
So  rek-lect,  olf'lah,  Tuesday,  at  half-past  seven." 

The  drawing  shows  how  I  was  introduced,  and 
how  graciously  I  was  received. 

The  letter  needs  a  word  of  explanation,  as  it 
144 


with  du  Maurier. 

speaks  of  the  "  future  Mrs.  '  Kicky,' "  and  I  have 
not  yet  mentioned  that  Kicky  was  but  another 
name  for  du  Maurier.  He  got  it  at  an  early 
period  of  his  life.  Just  as  any  other  baby  less 
favoured  by  "  Dame  Fortune  the  witch  "  would 
have  done,  he  gave  himself  his  nickname.  He 
picked  it  up  in  Brussels  when  he  was  two  years 
old,  and  under  the  care  of  Flemish  servants. 
They  called  him  "  Mannekin "  (little  man),  and 


that  he  converted  into  "  Kicky."     I  append  one 
of  the  numerous  varieties  of  his  signature. 

The  Rag,  Tag,  and  Bobtail  had  its  day,  and 
was  shelved  soon  after  we  bid  adieu  to  Bohemia  ; 
but  the  Kicky  survived  and  flourished,  and  to- 
day not  only  his  old  chums,  but  those  nearest 
and  dearest  to  him,  feel  that  they  could  not  do 
without  that  particular  appellation,  associated  as 
it  is  with  a  thousand  and  one  happy  memories. 

145  T 


In  Bohemia  witk  du  Maurier. 

And  having  arrived  at  that  busiest  of  stations, 
the  Matrimonial  Junction,  where  the  converted 
bachelor  alights  and  changes  for  Better  or  for 
Worse,  these  pages  fitly  come  to  a  close,  meant 
as  they  were  only  to  sketch  some  of  the  pleasant 
recollections  that  I,  in  common  with  so  many  of 
his  friends,  have  of  du  Maurier's  bachelor  days. 


UXWIX   BROTHERS,   THE  GRESHAM   PRESS,  \VOKIXG  AXD  LONDON 
146 


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